


Trifecta

by brokenbeauty



Category: Sekai-ichi Hatsukoi
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-08 00:40:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4284087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenbeauty/pseuds/brokenbeauty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What goes around, comes around, but not in the way we expect it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> OH MY GOD YOU GUYS. This is my first fic in ages. I literally had to scrape the rust off my pen for this. Thank you thank you thank you to my lovely beta Inês and happy reading!

_“Man_ am I tired,” Yokozawa Takafumi let out a long-suffering sigh as he toed off his shoes in the _genkan._

Grabbing a beer from the steadily depleting six-pack in his fridge, he made his way to the couch that seemed to beckon to him from the living room. Said furniture groaned under his weight as he abruptly sank down onto it, already glumly contemplating the pack of instant miso soup that would end up constituting his dinner.

It wasn’t that he _couldn’t_ cook; it was a necessary skill he had familiarized himself with while taking care of _certain_ parties intent upon self-destruction; it was just that in his current tired state, even the simple task of making instant soup seemed like an insurmountable barrier. He stretched out his legs, which of late had taken to feeling perpetually cramped.

“I should _really_ start taking better care of myself,” he mumbled to himself as he massaged his aching shoulder. The week had certainly taken its toll on him. The ache in his muscles brought about by previously effortless trips to bookstores around the city was now an uncomfortable reminder of his twenty-eight years.

He should _probably_ make himself a proper dinner, he thought dimly. The bone-deep tiredness that had settled over him, however, seemed to have other ideas as he felt himself sinking deeper, deeper into the softness of the couch cushions…

 

* * *

 

He awoke to a hand brushing the hair from his forehead.

“W-what the _hell-_?!”

He jumped up in shock, only to find Kirishima gazing down at him, brow furrowed worriedly.

“What’re you doing here,” he groaned out, sleepiness seeping back in now that the initial shock of Kirishima’s sudden appearance had faded. Even if it was only his lover, though, it seemed impolite to yield to the strong urge to flop back down onto the couch, so Yokozawa settled for sitting down instead.

“I called you to tell you I was coming over. If a certain _someone_ would answer phone calls from their significant other…” the older man said, and the other’s mind instantly flew to his adorable, ten-year-old daughter who never got the time she deserved with her father.

“Hiyo-”

“-Is at my mother’s. Apparently they wanted to make some paper crafts I was debarred from attempting after my first few gallant attempts,” Kirishima chipped in smoothly, before Yokozawa could give him a proper earful.

The younger man snorted. “I could just imagine you fiddling around with those scissors and posing a threat to everyone in the vicinity.” 

A faint smile rose, unbidden, to his lips at the picture.

“Oh, come on~ We can’t all be as good with our hands as you~” the editor simpered, making his way over to his lover where he was sitting on the couch and aiming for a hug, which Yokozawa deftly dodged.

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?” he groused. It wasn’t that he didn’t _want_ Kirishima to touch him, but _fuck_ if he was ever letting him know. The guy _didn’t_ need another boost to his already oversized ego.

“Awww~ I come all the way here because I want to see you, and this is the thanks I get?” That damn amused lilt was back in his voice, which invariably meant that he was sharpening his claws to dig into the black-haired man good with his teasing.

“Whatever, just shut up. I’m making dinner,” Yokozawa said, getting up and making his way to the kitchen in hopes to put a speedy end to the teasing that always managed to rile him up, and wincing involuntarily at the answering ache in his muscles.

He froze as a pair of strong arms wrapped snugly around his waist.

“Hey, don’t wear yourself out ~ _too_ ~ much. Can’t have you breaking down on me before we _finally_ get to the good part.” the taller man said into the fabric of his shirt, the material barely concealing the smile in his voice.

The grey-eyed man twitched, flustered. “W-who the hell said anything about _getting to the good part?_ ”

“Why, I did, of course. Are you saying you don’t want to?” Kirishima stood, pressing himself up against Yokozawa.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” the younger man bit out through gritted teeth. ‘Who the hell would want to do _anything_ with you? And _let go of me._ ”

“No can do. I _love_ it when you act like you don’t want it~” his lover said, and he could almost _hear_ the teasing smirk in the chestnut-haired man's voice. “But for now, just be quiet and let me take care of you.”  
Without so much as a by your leave, Kirishima pushed him down on the couch. Yokozawa let out an undignified squawk as he tumbled onto the soft cushions.

“H-hey, what’re you-?!”

He barely got the words out before he was being flipped onto his stomach, a pair of strong arms pinning him down. His mind rushed to the _first_ time they had been in this position, when the taller man had pinned him down like this on the morning after Yokozawa had gotten magnificently drunk and ended up forcing his workplace superior to look after his sloshed ass. A hot flush crept up his neck as he recalled the many, _many_ times after that.

He was abruptly jerked back to reality when he felt the older man bracing his knees on either side of his waist and pressing him down flat onto the couch.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?” he snarled, struggling ineffectually against the other man's hold.

His squirming was brought to an abrupt end when Kirishima dug his fingers into a tense knot of Yokozawa’s back and a reflexive, pleasured grunt escaped him. He immediately buried his face into a cushion in embarrassment, the back of his neck flushing pink.

“Are you _serious?”_ he groaned into the cushion as Kirishima continued to work his magic on his aching back, involuntary noises leaving his throat when he worked on the more tense spots. Damn, the guy was _good._ The brunet felt a familiar, uncomfortable stirring in his stomach as he wondered just who _else_ Kirishima had to practice upon.

“It’s just a _massage_ , relax.” his lover said, voice as even as ever, until it took on that smug tone, “Or were you expecting something else, _Takafumi?”_

As he spoke, he simultaneously dug his fingers into the twin tender spots on the shorter man's shoulders, who arched up reflexively with a small cry.

“I’m sure whatever you’re thinking of can be arranged~”

“----!” Yokozawa bit his tongue, flushing a darker red. It’d be rude to bitch out the guy who was literally reducing his tense muscles to putty in his hands. It would just be rising to his bait, too. And even if he’d never admit it, it felt _amazing._ It was just what he had needed to rid himself of the stress amassed by shouting himself hoarse at meetings, traipsing all around the city and constantly handling sales reports.

His thoughts began to drift, and, almost subconsciously, he felt the question slip past his lips.

“Where’d you learn to do that?”

 _Shit._ He wanted to clamp his hands down over his mouth and grab the question back from where it now hung, palpable, in the air. But Kirishima only laughed.

“Oh, Hiyo gets aches and pains all the time, so of course her Papa is called upon to act as Superman.”

He wanted to deny the undercurrent of relief that swept over him at his lover's explanation, but as it was, he just buried the shameful parts of him deep, and smiled faintly as another part of the older man's reply registered with him. He privately thought that Kirishima’s relationship with his daughter was adorable, and eagerly seized upon any tidbit of information he could get about them.

Before he knew it, his mind began to wander again as his muscles relaxed, completely at the mercy of the other man's deft fingers. A part of him _hated_ feeling this way, completely vulnerable, but it was eclipsed by the part of him that told him that _there was nothing shameful about it, it was just a massage._

“Tilt your head up a bit,” a silken voice murmured in his ear. Yokozawa’s body, pliant after the massage, complied bonelessly.

A hand suddenly caught his chin, and before he could blink, soft lips captured his own.

“ _Mmmmph_!” The salesman's body jolted in surprise as Kirishima slid his hand up to the back of his head, entwining his fingers in the dark strands of hair while the other cupped his cheek. His hands slid up to the other's chest in a vain effort to push his away, catch his breath, regain his senses, _something,_ but now he was coaxing Yokozawa’s mouth open with his tongue, deepening the kiss, and the grey-eyed man felt like he was _melting_. He closed his eyes, his blush now bright red in shame at the effect his lover’s kisses had on him.

All at once, he became conscious of a hand creeping along his chest. He felt the buttons on his shirt being skillfully undone, and the shock finally pushed him to break the kiss and turn over to face Kirishima. When he caught sight of the man's expression, though, Yokozawa averted his gaze, ashamed, from the dark one that was looking at him with such open _want_ as the taller man unabashedly worked his way through the buttons still holding his partner's shirt closed. Even as the younger man scrambled for words, a reprimand, though, he couldn't help but feel an inkling of pride that the other man looked as affected as he felt, hair mussed, cheeks pink.

“D-don’t just spring things like that on people, damn it!”

Kirishima ignored his ineffectual chastisement, looking at him with the same intense, steady gaze until he was forced to return it.

“I was worried about you, you know. When you didn’t answer your door. So I just let myself in.”

The ink-haired man looked away, discomfited, his blush darkening by the second. He knew he should just accept the sentiment graciously, but he just couldn’t rein in his reactions when it came to the brown-eyed man.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s not like I could have died or anything,” he muttered, suddenly feeling guilty for having made his lover worry. He was annoying, and presumptuous, and hugely self-satisfied, but Yokozawa knew he genuinely cared.

Any beatific emotion he might have felt was instantly erased when Kirishima’s thumb teasingly brushed over his now exposed nipple, making it harden instantly.

“H-hey, _where_ do you think you’re touching?”

“Just exacting payment for my services~” the editor said, thumbing over the other one too, causing a muted shiver to course down the younger’s spine.

“Just shut up…” he ground out, embarrassed beyond measure by his partner's brazen antics.

“Is that your way of telling me to _get on with it_?” the taller man smirked, leaning forward to mouth at Yokozawa’s collarbone, and _really,_ Yokozawa had had _enough_ of being played with.

He surged forward, annoyance at Kirishima’s antics mingling with the desire to shut him up, leave him speechless, animating his hands in a burst of courage as he tugged open the button on Kirishima’s pants and pulled down his fly.

The teasing smirk on the older man's face morphed into something more desirous, darker, as he pulled the grey-eyed man back in for another searing kiss, hands wandering…

 

“I _sit_ there every time I come over, you know. _”_

 

Yokozawa yanked his hands away from Kirishima as if he’d been burned. He _knew_ that voice. And there was only one other person who had a spare key to his apartment.

Sure enough, as he hastily fixed up his clothing, he dared cast a glance up at his guest. None other than Masamune now stood in the _genkan,_ his customary bored expression in place, except for the half-smirk the salesman could see building at the corner of his mouth.

His face and ears felt like they were on _fire. Seriously,_ had neither of them heard the door open? 

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here?!” he barely managed to spit out as he forced himself to meet the gaze he could feel burning into him.

“Meeting a friend,’ he holds up the convenience store bag, presumably full of _Chuu’hi_ and beer, “But you seem to have occupied yourself… _otherwise.”_

 

The dark-haired man spluttered, torn between an insane urge to lock himself in his bedroom forever and summarily kick Masamune out of his house.

“Your assumption would be correct,” his lover said out of the blue, and _fuck,_ Yokozawa had forgotten that he existed.

But there he was, reclining gracefully on the couch with his legs crossed. He hadn’t bothered to do his fly back up. His voice was still light, conversational, but now had a steely undercurrent that Yokozawa, along with Kirishima’s subordinates, had learned to be wary of. “So if you would _kindly_ leave us to it…”

If there was a limit to how acutely embarrassed it was possible to be, then Yokozawa was sure he’d discover it today.

Masamune snorted.

“With pleasure. Trust me, I’ve seen it all before, and there’s not much to anticipate.”

If Yokozawa hadn’t been attuned to his partner’s little idiosyncrasies, he might have missed the way his grasp tightened on the arm of the couch.

Masamune threw his friend a final glance. “We’re meeting up for drinks. _Very_ soon.”

“Whatever, just get out,” the addressee grit out. The brown-haired man turned, briefly raising his arm in farewell as he left.

He swore he could hear him laughing his ass off in the hallway.


	2. Foreshadowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly really enjoyed writing this chapter. There is no writing style for Kirishima's thoughts, per se, so I just kind of went to town. I'm gomme. I'm going to try and update on Mondays and Fridays, but I won't be able to deliver this week because exams xc. Oh well, enjoy the smutty smut smut!

The door clicked shut behind Takano, and Kirishima tried to neatly ebb the red tinting the corners of his vision out with the retreating figure.

 _Put a fucking lid on it, Zen,_ he determinedly loosened his grip that had been putting Yokozawa’s couch in mortal danger.

_I’ve seen it all before._

_Has he, the bastard?_

Kirishima gritted his teeth, running a smoothing hand over his expression which was undoubtedly giving away more of himself than he cared to. Usually, he’d brush it off with a _think he enjoyed the show?,_ make light of it with a _you should’ve seen the look on his face._

But there _was_ no look, of surprise, embarrassment, shock, marring the smooth lines of Takano’s aggravatingly apathetic features. He looked exactly like, as he’d said, _he’d seen it all before._

Kirishima _knew_ that there was virtually nothing to worry about, Takano and Yokozawa had, quite literally, gone their separate ways. He _knew_ Yokozawa loved him, and he _knew_ Takano loved that Onodera-whatshisface just as much. And _Jeez,_ Hiyo _was more mature than him sometimes,_ but he couldn’t help the irrational _possessiveness_ that sank its venomous claws into his reason, wanting him to drown it in the constant reassurance that Yokozawa was _most assuredly not going anywhere._

As the silence between them thickened and lengthened, it prodded at Kirishima to break it, because that’s just what he _did._

Chancing a glance at Yokozawa from under his lashes, Kirishima felt his mouth twitching into a broad smile. He looked ready to _die,_ fidgeting uncomfortably on the couch, face akin to a siletz and seeming like he was fighting a strong urge to just make a break for the bedroom.

He leaned in closer again. This was familiar territory. This he knew, and he could feel his tension dissolving in the warmth of Yokozawa’s fluster.

“Well, I _did_ tell him to _leave us to it,”_ he murmured into Yokozawa’s neck, smirk widening at the way Yokozawa instantly stiffened. Really, just _who_ did the guy think he was fooling when his pulse was racing a mile a minute?

“G-get off, don’t you have _any_ shame whatsoever?” Yokozawa said, making to push away. Kirishima felt tendrils of the _dark_ he kept so firmly locked away spiderwebbing like a network of fragile, hypersensitive nerves through his chest.

“Oh, you know I’m absolutely _wanton_ when it comes to you~” and _no,_ he was _not_ showing this part of himself to Yokozawa.

“W-who the hell would think like that…” Yokozawa fumbled for words, _adorably_ , and Kirishima _knew_ that he probably had a few screws loose when it came to him, but everything the bear-like man said or did invariably translated as such.

“Oh, it’s just the effect you have on me~” Kirishima grabbed Yokozawa’s hand, bringing his lips to it. Heat rushed up his spine, lodging itself firmly in his brain and fevering his thoughts, little by little. “Now, will you come to bed with me, or will I have to carry my blushing bride there?”

 

And the way Yokozawa’s pulse sped up as he pushed him off with all his strength before stomping his way to the bedroom with a _get here before I lock you out_ did absolutely _nothing_ to abate the fever snaking tendrils through him.

* * *

  
Kirishima let out a quiet moan into Yokozawa’s hair as he sheathed himself fully in Yokozawa’s searing heat.

“Ah! _Sh-shit,”_ Yokozawa shuddered, entire body trembling as he fought to ground himself, and Kirishima could only _imagine_ just how intense this must be for him. _He_ felt dizzied by the _heat,_ and he wasn’t even the one taking it.

“I’m moving,” he muttered and began to slowly rock his hips in and out, steadily gaining speed as Yokozawa’s breathless little sounds increased in both volume and richness. They spurred him on, goading him to grip his hips just that _little bit_ tighter, thrust just _that much_ deeper to elicit more, more, _more._

Before he knew it, his fingers were carving out artwork in mottled purple-blue as he lifted Yokozawa’s hips up to get a better angle. He wanted so _much_ from this man, wanted to strip him down and lay him bare for Kirishima to see, every little nook and crevice of him. He wanted to take him apart under his ministrations, make him _writhe_ and _moan_ and _beg._

With intent in mind, he angled his thrusts, searching for it. Yokozawa suddenly arched up under him, a needy, pleasured moan filtering through the pillow he was biting to muffle his sounds.

_Found it._

_“Here?”_ Kirishima panted, tilting his hips again, eliciting another sweet sound from Yokozawa. He kept his hips steady, aiming for that spot every time. “It feels _good_ here, doesn’t it? Come on,” he clenched his teeth. “Don’t hold back your voice.”

“B-bastard- as… if-“ Yokozawa grunted, the insult not very convincing, punctuated as it was with moans and sharp inhales.

The sounds he elicited from the man beneath him were just fueling the fire inside the chest, the one that screamed at him to throw all _reason_ to the winds and just _claim_ what was his.

Yokozawa’s moans were building in crescendo, and it was as if his mind _just shut down_ as he fucked into him with pure animalistic instinct, snapping his hips harder on every pass. The fist of base emotion that clenched over his heart like some perverse deity demanding satiation. Kirishima obliged, biting bruising kisses into Yokozawa's shoulders, fucking away even the _thought_ of Takano, the image of his face, until the only name Yokozawa could remember would be Kirishima’s.

 _Name._  

His hand crept to Yokozawa’s front, gripping his leaking erection hard near the base, stalling the orgasm that was creeping up on him.

“ _Shit,”_ Yokozawa gasped, hand instinctively curling around Kirishima’s, trying to pry it away.

“Say my name,” Kirishima breathed into his hair, the darkness clawing its way up his throat and bursting forth.

“Like- _hell_ I would,” Yokozawa gasped out, white-knuckled grip on the sheets.

“ _Say it,”_ Kirishima drove his hips faster, faster, building them both up to the very precipice, the thin line between sanity and the lack thereof blurring into white-hot pleasure. “ _Yokozawa,”_

Heady noises tumbled past Yokozawa’s lips, now barely muffled by the pillow, and then, barely audible, a shuddering, “Kirishima-san…”

 _Yesssss,_ the shapeless being in Kirishima’s dissolving into satisfaction, “Again.”

“Kirishima… san,” Yokozawa groaned into the pillow, and Kirishima felt the blinding pleasure sweep him away as he left go of Yokozawa’s dick, hips stuttering as he felt him clench around him.

And Takano _hadn’t_ seen it all before, hadn’t seen this part of Yokozawa that fought against pleasure until it overwhelmed him, that stubbornly clung onto its pride until the bitter end, the one that didn’t realize how vulnerable he was, all the chinks in his armor. He hadn’t seen the adorable _fragility._

No, that was reserved for Kirishima alone.

 

Moans tore out of their throats as the drowned in each other, spelled out their need with rising urgency into each other’s skin, and oh _god_ it was so tight, and hot and Kirishima was going to lose it any second now.

“Ah, ah, _ahhhh---!”_ His hand curled around Yokozawa’s cock, feverish strokes as Yokozawa’s back arched and he cried out as his release spattered the sheets.

“----!” Kirishima bit down hard on Yokozawa’s shoulder as the coil of heat in his stomach burst and he came in hot spurts inside Yokozawa.

 

And, well, if he’d bit out _mine_ in the throes of his release, then no one had to be any the wiser.

 

Afterwards, he collapsed beside Yokozawa, still breathless after a good ten minutes and absolutely _spent._ It took a good deal of prodding from Yokozawa’s foot before he mustered up the will to get himself cleaned up, even neglecting to cover his mouth as he coughed. Yokozawa rolled away from him with a wrinkled nose and _don’t go spreading your germs to me._

 

 

* * *

 

                                                                                                   

Kirishima didn’t ever think he’d get used to this, as his eyes fluttered open in the silent stillness of the honeydew morning.

Golden sunlight filtered in through the windows, bathing the sleeping form next to him in an aura of uncharacteristic serenity. It was just them, floating in this little bit distilled light, a frozen moment hidden from the timekeeper of this Universe, a grain of sand stolen away from his hourglass.

He fought the urge to caress the ebony locks that seemed a light, light brown when strained through the caramel morning, for fear of rousing him from this spell of infrequent concord.

It was immaterial, though, as he stirred, and Kirishima felt a deep, intrinsic happiness as he just _watched._ He loved this man. _Loved_ him. Was enraptured by these little nuances. Every day shed light on a new facet of Yokozawa’s soul, pure as clear crystal, scattering rainbow fragments that seeped color into his life.

He turned to face Kirishima, who felt all his breath leave him in one fell swoop. A chill spread through him despite the warmth of the room, because _this wasn’t right._

_“Sakura?”_

 

“Zen,” she _spoke,_ for lack of better terminology, but her voice seemed to resonate from every corner of the room. She opened her eyes, and a dazzling, rich gold had burned away their brown warmth. “Come to me, Zen.”

And she seemed to _drift,_ up, away, nothing enshrouding her but light. Before he knew it, Kirishima had risen up off the bed, feet following her as if of their own accord. There was so _much_ they had left to say to each other, they’d never had enough-

“Oi, where’re you going?”

The door to his room opened and Yokozawa walked in, hair disheveled, the utter _normalcy_ he ushered in standing in mockery of events just transpired.

Kirishima’s line of sight snapped to him, then to Sakura’s disappearing form, the turmoil raging in waves that threatened to rend to rubble the tentative foundations of the life he’d rebuilt.

Sakura’s shimmering form grew almost mirage-like, and Yokozawa’s voice obliterated all other noise.

 

 

 

“Wake up!”

 

 

 

Kirishima bolted upright in bed as Yokozawa’s rough shake to his shoulder registered.

“ _Shit,_ are you all right?”

The customary furrow was firmly upon Yokozawa’s brow, this time brought on by worry rather than the usual irritation at Kirishima. He tempered his exclamation with an awkward pat to Kirishima’s shoulder, and he leaned his forehead against the steady arm gratefully. Yokozawa’s cheeks pinkened, but he didn’t snatch it away.

“Yeah, nightmare…” Kirishima said, surreptitiously taking a few measured breaths to calm himself. He felt drained of all energy, breath coming in gasps, bones aching. “It’s alright now.”

“Y-yeah,” Yokozawa mumbled, withdrawing his arm. “We’re going to be late for work if you don’t get ready.”

With the awkward delivery of the final remark, Yokozawa left to change into his work clothes, leaving Kirishima to combat the unsettling feeling brewing in the pit of his stomach. He shook his head determinedly, _snap out of it,_ the thoughts _couldn’t_ take more of a hold on him, but they incised into his consciousness like covertly inserted glass shards, slashing to tattered fragments rationality and unleashing the evil sprites of carefully-buried thoughts.

 

_In a choice between Sakura and Yokozawa, whom would he choose?_

His hands intuitively found his head as he just rocked himself back and forth, mulling over yet using away from the question that seemed to open a cavernous void of unpleasant, wriggling considerations he would have gladly turned his face from.

He jumped about a foot in the air when the door opened and Yokozawa stumbled in, wearing his work clothes and an utterly discomfited look on his face.

“Look, you know you can talk to me about it if you want, right?” he said, resolutely avoiding Kirishima’s eyes and fidgeting awkwardly, blush staining his cheeks.

Kirishima just stared at him in shock.

It felt like a glass of ice water had been dumped over his head, forcing his world into sharp relief.

He felt _light._

“Yeah,” he managed to answer, just _looking_ at Yokozawa in wonder. Yokozawa shifted uncomfortably under the attention.

“That doesn’t me you don’t have to get your ass out of bed for work!” he snapped, hurrying out of the room.

Kirishima got out of bed.

“Now, what kind of a lover would I be if I didn’t even tie your necktie for you? ~” he said, voice and spirits buoyant as he went after Yokozawa with his relentless teasing again. And _goddamn,_ he loved this man, and Yokozawa might believe that he was given to instances of shameful emotion, the truth was, he wasn’t the only one. Kirishima just hid it better.

And as long as he had this ridiculous, pure-hearted man by his side, everything would work out just fine.


	3. Regret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 am. Tired. Must. Sleep. Study.

_They’d walked into work together._

It was a cursory observation, made when Takano had been smoking his idle way through a cigarette, gazing moodily out of the glass-fronted break room. Smoke tendrils had dissipated into nothing as his mind wandered, like the plot of the books he so enjoyed, to its foregone conclusion. Onodera. _Ritsu._

 _God,_ he pissed him off. The moment he’d traipsed into Emerald with his stupid stubbornness and stupider green eyes that bespoke all the things the former held back, his fate has been sealed.

Maybe it’d been sealed since that sakura-trellised day in their school library, where those three little words had rushed forth past trembling lips, carried forth by a wave of unbounded emotion.

It was the first time anyone had _felt_ so recklessly, boundlessly for him. He was convinced it’d be the last.

So he’d _given_ and _given_ with eighteen-year-old abandon until there had been nothing left to give. And when Onodera had disappeared from his clasp like a whirlwind mirage, he’d emptied his heart in one clean sweep.

Only to unleash crashing waves of all the emotion he’d taken away with him upon Takano as he awkwardly stumbled his way into the older man’s life and faceplanted right into the epicenter of his thoughts.

And before he knew it, he’d been swept away.

 

But Takano had been wrong.

People _had_ felt for him after Ritsu, and the one who’d mattered the most out of all of them was the one he currently espied making a hurried entrance through the gate overlooked by the break room. He was accompanied by a tall figure that stood _just_ that side of too close for comfort. With that distinct chestnut hair, there was no mistaking who he was.

In spite of himself, Takano felt his lips curling into a smirk. Those two were _really_ not two people he could have ever pictured getting together. He hadn’t even known they were on speaking terms until recently.

But if someone could coax Yokozawa, who turned up earlier than him even when the beginning of hell week pushed his mornings into misty dawns, into almost-tardiness,

 

Well, then the wild bear of Marukawa had finally met his match.

 

 _It isn’t like I can talk, though._ He was well aware that few could hold a candle to him in terms of unlikely relationships. Also, he rather liked Kirishima-san personally, although he didn’t care much for that lighthearted attitude of his. Despite outward appearances, though, the man was a stickler for his duties and could always be relied on to get the work done. Kirishima-san was one of the few people in his line of work he actually respected and looked up to. He supposed it could be… refreshing to have someone like him around, although he’d never really see Yokozawa go for that type before.

All the same, the women at Sapphire were going to have a field day if they ever found out. He could just picture the titles even now: _Steamy Office Romance: Catch a glimpse of the passionate love affair between the editor-in-chief of XXX Shuppen and the head salesman in our next issue!_

An amused look flickered across his expression. He’d have to get that story out of Yokozawa someday.

_Ah._

The realization that this wasn’t exactly a conversation he could have with Yokozawa anytime soon dawned on him.

 

_He’d really, truly been in love with me, hadn’t he._

Looking back on it, he wondered how he could have missed the intimations literally _radiating_ through the chinks in Yokozawa’s armor. The memories, accumulated over the intervening ten years, flipped their pages in his mind’s eye.

Yokozawa hauling his wasted form out of an alleyway. Yokozawa cooking for him, grumbling all the while about how he was going to end up dead in a ditch somewhere if he didn’t eat properly. Yokozawa telling him to get his ass out of the rut he was in because he’d found him a job. It wasn’t too much of a stretch to say that everything he had right now was at least partially thanks to him.

 

_So couldn’t he have let him down a bit gentler?_

 

And a foreign, uncomfortable sensation suddenly pricked at him as the conversation that these very four walls had borne witness to played on a reel in acute clarity, because even _then_ Yokozawa had laughed, made light of it all through a carefully constructed mask, had

 

_tried to spare his feelings._

_He could just have left Takano to die in that alleyway, but he didn’t._

_And he could just have given up on Takano after what he did, but he didn’t._

_And somehow, he’d always, always known,_

_That come what may, Yokozawa would never leave his side._

_And he’d always put Takano before himself._

He _owed_ Yokozawa, he was just realizing, and had conveniently never thought about it. And now? Even _Takano_ understood that he deserved better than awkward conversation and an apology secreted away within the confines of this room.

The least he could do was to give him _them_ back.

Maybe it was too late to mend fences, and maybe Yokozawa just wanted _time,_ but Takano hoped that with the mail asking Yokozawa to meet him for drinks after hell week, sent with uncharacteristic nervousness, amidst teasing jabs and friendly banter, they could strike up again the spark that had initially drawn them to each other like moths.

 

* * *

 

“Takano-san?! Where are you? More importantly, _where is the manuscript you were supposed to hand in today?”_

Takano sighed as Onodera’s panicked voice floated through to the break room. _So much for a relaxing smoke,_ his cigarette crumbled into ash as he threw it into the bin after putting it out.

About three seconds later, the door quivered on its hinges as Onodera burst in, looking as if he was ready to grab Takano and _shake_ him until the manuscript fell out.

His fingers automatically found his temples as he tried to massage away the headache brought on by Onodera’s incoherent yelling as he rounded on him.

“So noisy,” he muttered, leaning forward, closing in on Onodera.

Onodera’s indignant voice immediately died down as he found his lips otherwise occupied with Takano’s own. His entire body froze in shock as Takano gripped his hands to prevent him from retaliating.

When he had given him the job of coordinator, he should have anticipated the earnestness with which he discharged his duties. It was part of what he had fallen in love with, the way he had loved him with a pure, open heart, pouring into it everything he had. It was part of the reason why he gave him so many responsibilities at work, just to see the zeal of the Ritsu he remembered flicker to life.

Takano got in a few blissful seconds of soft lips against his before the shock wore off and Onodera’s teeth sunk into his bottom lip, biting down _hard_ as he struggled to rip his hands out of Takano’s grip.

“Oww!” Takano hissed, yanking his head away. “What the fuck?”

Onodera’s mouth moved in wordless disbelief for a few seconds before he found his voice again.

“What the- _I should be asking you that!”_ he cried, voice steadily rising in pitch. “We’re at _work!_ In a _public place,_ where we could get _kicked out_ for this kind of thing! A concept you don’t seem to _understand!”_

He was gesturing expansively, reprimands doing nothing to disguise the pink staining his cheeks. “This is _an office!_ Where, by the way, you’re supposed to be delivering the work you’d said you would!”

Takano just exhaled deeply, the deep-rooted contrariness that Onodera always seemed to arouse coming forth. “If you have the time to bitch at me, why don’t you finish photo-typesetting the stack I saw on your desk earlier today?”

“That’s not the _point!”_

He just stared back impassively, relishing in the burning green facing him, because he loved this stubborn side of Onodera too, which showed to him his fire in an absolutely different light. It was so unbearably cute.

He got up to leave, ignoring Onodera’s outraged expression. His fingers, of their own accord, drew his arm to the younger man’s hair, ruffling the russet locks, reveling in the rough-soft texture, and stowing away the expression that graced his features carefully in the private little corner of his memory.

He turned and left the room, pulling out his phone to strike mortal dread into the heart of his unfortunate author again.

It was going to be _long_ day, but as long as he had these little bubbles of warmth buoying his spirits, he would tide over.

 

* * *

 

“Ah, Takano! I’ve been looking for you~” Isaka-san seemed to appear out of nowhere, looping an arm around Takano’s shoulders.

Takano pinched the bridge of his nose. The man’s upbeat demeanor was _not helping_ his steadily building headache.

“Isaka-san,” he said stiffly, inclining his head in a bow. Even though the man was a company director, his penchant for acting like a five-year-old had not suffered the misfortunes of age and authority.

“Ah, cut the pleasantries, I’ve got news for you!” Isaka-san said, smiling away. “Ichinose Erika’s _Diamond Heart_ is going to get an anime adaptation.”

“Fascinating.” Isaka-san might be an outstanding editor, but Takano _did not_ appreciate his upbeat persona in the face of hell week. Also, for an author as famous as Ichinose Erika, getting an anime series was hardly a novelty.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s not the important part of it!” he continued, seemingly oblivious to Takano’s lack of reaction. “The _important_ part is, you’re going to be on the Editorial Board for the anime.”

Takano did a subtle double take. The Editorial Boards for anime adaptations of manga series were famously snooty, rarely even deigning to take _suggestions_ from the Manga editors. Let alone give one a place on their Board.

“I know right! I was surprised too,” Isaka-san said, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Those stick-up-the ass editors never condescend to even interact with the other departments, but seems like this time, Ichinose-san put in a personal request to include people from all departments in the board. Though it might help the anime get larger viewing if it was handled by a rounded-out team.”

“Ah, I see…” Takano hummed a non-committal response, them tensed up as the latter half of the reply registered with him. “Wait. If you’re really including people from _all_ departments, then the Sales representative has to be…”

“Yokozawa.” Isaka-san said, nodding serenely. “I recommended him. Thought you’d appreciate the company.”

Never in his life had Takano wanted to wrap his fingers around Isaka Ryuuichirou’s throat so badly.


	4. Developments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why it was so hard for me to write this chapter. BUT HELLO HELLO YOU BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE. I'm super sorry I haven't updated in over two weeks, but now that my exams are over, here's a super long chapter to make up for it!

When Yokozawa's phone buzzed with Masamune's casual _"drinks saturday?",_ his first reaction was to text back an immediate, crushing, _no_.

Maybe followed by a _what the fuck?_

His frown deepened as his fingers twitched, wanting to do just that. There was no way he still loved Masamune like he had before, but he'd be lying if he said that his chest didn't twinge painfully every time he saw him around, and that being alone with him wasn't too soon.

Still, that was no excuse to act _absolutely childishly_ about whole affair. Especially since Masamune had taken it upon himself to be the bigger person. It was only Yokozawa's responsibility to respond in kind, since the whole messed-up situation _had_ been his fault in the first place. Just the fact that Masamune had gone out of his way to make the first move towards salvaging their raging trainwreck of a relationship was, Yokozawa knew, his own, wordless way of saying _I still care about you_.

"Just what part of _give me time_ does he not understand…" he muttered to himself as he contemplated his options. Idealistic notions as he might entertain, the truth was that things were more _awkward_ than anything else between them right now. The tension between them hadn't been helped _one bit_ by Masamune walking in on him with his hands literally down Kirishima's pants.

 _Shit_ , his cheeks still burned in shame at the memory as he let out a quiet groan. Masamune was _never_ going to let him live that one down. He knew it was all the more reason to refuse him, but it wasn't like his friend was any stranger to the desires of the flesh, himself. And it wasn't like he could lie to him, either. They'd always had an unspoken contract to answer honestly whenever interrogated by the other about their love lives.

* * *

 

Unbidden, the memory flashed across his mind.

 

 

_"Of all people, why Onodera?"_

 

 

_"Because I love him."_

 

His blazing eyes had delivered the message with more finality than any words ever could.

* * *

His train of thought was saved from taking a running leap into the gutter by the appearance of Henmi, who came bursting into his cubicle after a hurried knock. Yokozawa seized the opportunity to put off replying to the troublesome text, shoving his phone into his briefcase as he shot Henmi a questioning look.

"Yokozawa-san, you'll never guess the news I have for you!"

"Huh?" Yokozawa said, thrown off for a moment by Henmi's face, flushed with exertion and excitement. He'd obviously run all the way here. Whatever the news was, it had to be pretty important for him to get this worked up over it.

Then again, he _was_ a pretty excitable sort. Yokozawa couldn't deny his curiosity, though.

"Let's have it, then."

"You're going to be on the Board for the Diamond Heart anime!"

_"Huh?"_

Ichinose Erika's bestselling manga was something he was familiar with, of course, having worked with pretty much every manga the shojo department churned out. However, having someone from Sales on the Editorial Board was unheard of. The anime editors were, as far as anyone in Manga was concerned, from another dimension altogether.

"Just _where_ did you hear this from?"

"Isaka-san told me to tell you when I bumped into him in the hallway earlier today. Apparently it's all very hush-hush for now, but Ichinose-sensei put in a personal request that all the manga departments be involved with the creation of the anime."

He could see how it was a clever sales strategy, of course. Working with the people who actually dealt with the story at its most basic level and understood the existing demographics was sure to put out an anime with mass appeal, but- " _Hold on a second. All_ departments?"

"Yep!" Henmi chirped happily. "But I wasn't surprised at all when he told me. If it's anyone from Sales, it has to be you, Yokozawa-san! Do us proud!"

Yokozawa's stomach was churning, and for a reason very different from excitement. _All the departments_ necessarily included the editorial department. And the person in charge of Ichinose Erika's book was…

* * *

 _"Masamune!"_ he barked into his phone as soon as he set out on his daily rounds. "Just when the _fuck_ were you planning on telling me that we're on the Board for Diamond Heart?"

"When it becomes my responsibility to make sure your calendar is up to date," Masamune drawled at the other end of the line.

"Well, I do apologize for not keeping up," he snarked back. A warm feeling settled in his chest as he felt them slipping back into their old, familiar banter. Maybe they _could_ do this after all, although holding a conversation over the phone was completely different from doing it face-to-face.

"You wouldn't feel the need to bitch at me over the phone if you'd deign to reply to my mail," Masamune said, tone dipping at the end.

"...…!" Yokozawa had _not_ expected him to bring it up casually. Still, with _that_ catch in his voice…

"Kounoiz. Later." Masamune's voice sounded over the phone, and, with that, he hung up. Yokozawa let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Just like that, he was meeting him for drinks. Things were bewilderingly simple for the two of them sometimes.

* * *

Yokozawa switched into business mode as he walked into Books Marimo, smoothing a hand through his hair which had been considerably rumpled by the autumn wind. Being around books always filled him with a sense of peace.

He called out a greeting as Yukina Kou, the salesman for the shojo section, rushed over to talk to him after spotting him.

"Good afternoon, Yokozawa-san! Marukawa Shoten's manga are flying off the shelves as usual."

Yokozawa nodded. "It's all thanks to you."

And it was true. Yukina's handsome features and charming demeanor played an admittedly huge part in attracting the store's overwhelmingly female clientele. However, he seemed to be unconscious of it, looking embarrassed as he waved off the compliment with a "Oh, it's not really a big deal. I only recommend the titles I personally like to my customers."

A little bit of modesty didn't hurt his appeal, either.

"Speaking of, how has the reception for Ichinose-sensei's _Diamond Heart 4_ been?" 

Yokozawa had come here with a specific purpose in mind. Since his first Editorial Board meeting was scheduled for the next day, he waned to spend the day gathering information about the readers' opinions on the manga.

Yukina's face lit up. "Ichinose-sensei never disappoints. We're all sold out for the second time this month!"

Yokozawa felt a surge of pride. Every book he'd handled, directly or indirectly, had a personal significance for him, although he didn't actually get the time to read most of them.

"Would an anime adaptation of it be something you would watch?" he ventured. He wanted to get an honest opinion, without revealing too much.

Yukina hesitated.

"This might be presumptuous of me to say, but… I don't really think that a plot so intricate would be something I'd have the patience to watch. I know most of my friends prefer to confine the heavy subject matter to reading."

"A-ah. I see. Thanks for the insight," Yokozawa said. Although he tended to gravitate towards more serious subject matter, it would make sense that a younger fanbase would prefer something more lighthearted and simple. This was something he'd have to bring up at the meeting tomorrow. "I'll be taking my leave now. Thank you for your hard work."

"Oh, it was no trouble at all! Your visits show how seriously you take your job." Yukina said as the sliding doors ushered Yokozawa out.

His feet mechanically traced the familiar path to Marukawa as his body followed, mind buried in thought. It was only when he came to a halt before the steps leading up to the building that he remembered that he'd finished his work for the day before heading out.

"Shit…" he cursed under his breath as he made to walk back to the station. Suddenly, a call of his name made his head turn as he spied Kirishima exiting the office.

_Shit._

"Yokozawa! Good work today. Just finished your rounds?" Kirishima said, making a beeline for him.

"Yeah, but I'm done for today so I was going to head back. Good work today."

"So you came all this way just to see me? I'm touched," Kirishima teased.

"Wha- _no way in hell_ ," Yokozawa replied, discomfited. It was just like Kirishima to interpret his actions however he pleased, if only to rile him up. "I'm _leaving. Good work today._ "

A hand grabbed his arm as he turned.

"Hey- come home tonight." Kirishima said, looking at him imploringly. Yokozawa's knee-jerk reaction was to snatch his arm away and straight-up refuse, but he hesitated as he actually took in Kirishima's appearance.

"….…."

Suffice to say, his ghastliness was a close contender to Masamune's in his glory days. The least he could do for him right now was play along with his harebrained schemes.

Making an indistinct sound of agreement, he extricated his arm from Kirishima's and set off in the direction of the station. Kirishima fell into step beside him and they walked in silence, shoulders brushing occasionally. Yokozawa's stomach roiled in discomfort every time it happened, casting about frantically for something to talk about. Even after all the time they'd spent… _intimately_ , they knew next to nothing about each other. Yokozawa probably knew _Hiyori_ better than her father, yet somehow when they got time to talk like this, his awkwardness froze up his tongue and he was left floundering for words. The feeling that he _shouldn't be here_ , beside Kirishima, that _his wife would have known all of this perfectly well_ , still persisted, and the shameful insecurity kept the questions firmly locked away.

After a few long moments, though, Yokozawa took the initiative.

"I'm on the Board for Diamond Heart," he blurted out. Work was the safest ground to discuss with Kirishima, and he might be able to provide some valuable guidance, after all, given his years of experience.

"Ahh, yes, I've heard talk of that happening," he said thoughtfully. "Well, congratulations. I'll take you out for drinks to celebrate. I can't say I'm surprised, though. Choosing you was a smart decision."

 "Yeah, yeah," Yokozawa said stiffly, "It's just an assignment, not a big deal."

It was honestly _strange_ how he had barely reacted when Henmi has said this to him, but just a few careless words from Kirishima along the same lines had him squirming uncomfortably.

The rest of the way home, they made small talk while Yokozawa surreptitiously tried to cast glances at Kirishima. It wasn't like he was worried, he knew Kirishima could take care of himself perfectly well. It was just that he knew the guy tended to bottle up stuff inside and ignore little things, like the nasty cough he'd developed.

"Take some medication for that cough of yours."

"I did this morning, so it should go away soon."

They _needed_ to talk about whatever was bothering Kirishima, that much was certain. Yokozawa just had no idea how to bring it up. The same awkwardness that inhibited his curiosity towards Kirishima's life crept up on him, forcing him to throw his opportunity away with arbitrary conversation.

* * *

"I'm home!" Kirishima called out as they stepped into Kirishima's genkan.

"Welcome back!" Hiyo's chipper voice greeted them, along with the appearance of her shiny brown head, ornamented with a frilly pink accessory. She ran right into Kirishima's waiting arms that picked her up and twirled her around.

" _Papa!_ I told you to stop doing that!" she scolded him, trying to hide how much she actually enjoyed it. Kirishima just laughed, and Yokozawa felt his face involuntarily softening into a fond expression as he watched the little exchange, somehow feeling like an intruder on their father-daughter moment.

"Yokozawa-oniichan!" Hiyori said when she spotted him, her eyes lighting up. "You're here too! You should have called ahead and told me, but we sure are lucky today, 'cause grandma sent a _gyuudon_ over. I'll heat it up, so have a seat, both of you!"

With that, her small figure disappeared into the kitchen.

"Pardon the intrusion," Yokozawa muttered as he crossed the threshold into the house.

* * *

A dinner punctuated with little conversation other than Hiyori's cheerful chatter about her school and Yuki-chan, where Kirishima did barely anything but push his food around his plate, and a bath later, Yokozawa was feeling considerably ruffled. He hadn't wanted to have such a personal conversation in a public place, and it was obviously not something they couldn't discuss in front of Hiyo. But now that she was safely asleep and they were sitting within the confines of Kirishima's living rooms nursing their beers, Yokozawa had no reason to put if off any longer.

"If something's bothering you, spit it out already," he said lowly, looking down at his hands that held his beer can.

"Hm?" Kirishima said, looking startled. A shadow passed over his face. "It's fine. Nothing important."

"It's obviously _important_ if you've been distracted all day because of it!" Yokozawa snapped, irritation surging at Kirishima's casual dismissal. Then, softening his voice, "…Is it about that nightmare you had?"

Kirishima was quiet for a few moments, expression dark, before he replied.

"…Yeah," he said quietly, expression dark. "I dreamt about Sakura."

"…Ah." Of all possible things, Yokozawa least knew how to react to that. It felt like sacrilege even _being_ here instead of her, so he couldn't possibly offer any advice pertaining to Kirishima's deceased wife.

"I dreamt that I woke up beside you, and then you turned around and it was _her_ , and she asked me to come to her. I was going to follow her, but then _you,_ the  _real_ you, were standing there, and. _God_ I feel so pathetic getting so worked up over this."

Yokozawa just let him get it out, not knowing what to say. Before he knew it, his arm had crept to Kirishima's shoulder, steadying him.

"And I felt _terrible_. Because, in that moment, I honestly didn't know which way to turn. And the worst part of it is, I didn't even know what I felt guilty about. Choosing you, or choosing her." Kirishima's feelings were now flowing out unrestrainedly, like a dam within him had burst.

"I just feel like I'm letting you both down by feeling like this. Yokozawa," he tilted Yokozawa's face towards him, looking into his eyes so that he could see, in stark detail, the conflict marring his handsome features, "I'm sorry."

Yokozawa didn't know what to say to him. He'd never been good at the whole 'consoling people' thing, so he decided on settling for absolute honesty. Truth be told, he had never expected Kirishima to choose him over his wife, and just the very _idea_ that Kirishima held him in such high regard as to not be able to choose between him and her gave rise to a warm buoyancy in his chest.

"I think… that's not a choice you'll ever have to make, right?" he finally replied, slowly, thinking out his words carefully. "So what's the use of worrying yourself about it? It's not a choice between me and her- it'll never be. So don't think you're doing either of us a disservice by not being able to choose."

Kirishima breathed deeply, considering for a few long moments, and then leaned his head on Yokozawa's shoulder.

"...Yeah, you're right. How come you're always so sensible about these things?"

Yokozawa snorted. "Yeah, right." 

He was the _least_ sensible when it came to fits of irrational jealousy and self-doubt. "I just gave you my honest opinion is all."

Kirishima hummed contentedly against Yokozawa's shoulder. "And that's what I love about you."

Yokozawa stiffened, and then was annoyed at himself for reacting like that. For God's sake, Kirishima hadn't even _said_ anything too outlandish, so what was he getting all worked up over?

To hide his consternation, he picked up their empty cans and put them in the recycling, tossing Kirishima a tissue to mask his persistent coughs.

"I'm heading to bed. Goodnight," he said, heading towards the spare room, when Kirishima grabbed his hand, stalling him in his tracks.

"Come to bed with me," he murmured.

"Are you _crazy?_ You _do_ realize that _Hiyo_ lives with us, right?"

"Just for a little bit. _Please,_ " and there were those damn imploring eyes again.

Yokozawa faltered. Just _what_ was Kirishima's angle? It didn't sound like he wanted to do anything, but sleeping with another man, non-sexually was… 

"......................"

He breathed a deep sigh. Just this once, and _only_ because Kirishima looked like he was going to break apart with exhaustion any moment now.

'If you try anything weird, and I mean _anything_ , you're on dishwashing detail for the next _month_."

Kirishima groaned.

"You're so heartless~"

"I'm not _heartless_ , we're just currently sleeping near a little kid and have work in the morning!"

"Oh, so you're saying it would've been fine otherwise?"

"J-just _fucking get into bed_."

"Alright, alright." Kirishima laughed, climbing into bed and holding out his arms. "You're going to be my little spoon, right?"

"Wh-who the _hell_ said anything about being a _little spoon?!"_ Yokozawa barely got the word out through his splutters of disbelief. The way Kirishima just said such things brazenly, without a trace of self-consciousness, was something he'd never be able to understand or imitate.

"You've got to be joking. We agreed on me staying here with you. _Nothing more._ "

"Awwww, no cuddles?"

" _Hell no_. What if Hiyo walks in to wake you up and sees us?"

"Locks exist for a reason, you know."

"Her finding the door locked with the two of us inside is even _worse_!"

"Okay, okay, but just _this_."

Soft lips brushed over Yokozawa's, and before he had time to react, they had disappeared. He froze in shock.

"Don't just do _that_ to other people!"

"Hmmm? You mean _this_?" Kirishima said smilingly, tilting Yokozawa's chin up and claiming his lips again, soft and almost... _sweet_. It was nothing like how he normally stole the air from Yokozawa's lungs, and though his usual kisses set Yokozawa's body on fire, if he was forced to admit it, this was kind of nice, too.

After a long, slow moment, Kirishima released his lips, smiling against them as his hand stroked Yokozawa's cheek. "Whoever knew that the wild bear of Marukawa had it in him."

Yokozawa smacked his hand away, feeling the all-too-familiar blush staining his cheeks and neck, looking away to hide his discomfiture. _He_ hadn't known he had it in him, had never considered himself the romantic type.

"Awww, don't _blush_ ~!"

"I'm _not blushing!"_

* * *

When they _did_ finally settle in, though, for all his teasing, Kirishima seemed to go out like a light, complaining for barely five minutes about his aching body and how it made him feel old before slowly drifting off. Yokozawa watched his sleeping face for a while, taking in the lines of fatigue marring his youthful face, before his brows furrowed. Kirishima's face appeared swollen. Had he been _crying?_

Yokozawa quickly shook off the thought. It was ridiculous to think that a man he'd never even seen _ruffled_ would cry over something like this. It was probably just the lighting, but it would be unwise to disregard it.

"You'd better get yourself checked out," he muttered. Kirishima, half asleep, only hummed his assent.

And if Yokozawa softly traced a hand over his cheek after he'd made sure that Kirishima was asleep, he never had to know.

* * *

"A beer for me, please," Yokozawa said to the bartender as Masamune slid into the stool next to him. "And a shochuu for him."

"Thanks," he muttered. "I need a drink after _that_."

 _That_ referred to the second Editorial Board meeting they'd had. The first one had gone surprisingly well, Yokozawa's research being well-received and suggestions being considered, albeit after a lengthy debate. The _second_ meeting, however, had gone to the dogs about two minutes into its opening, and the members had run themselves ragged by the end of it.

"Yeah. It had its moments, though. Did you _see_ the look on Aikawa's face when you shot him down?"

"It's not my fault that the  _idiot_ thought it was a good idea to fuck with the character design." Masamune replied, raising his glass as their drinks were set down before them.

"That's the surest way to put watchers off, change stuff about the characters. I don't know why they put such half-assed people on the Board." Yokozawa clinked his glass with Masamune's, then took a long drink. They sat in companionable silence for a beat, staring into their drinks, before, without even looking, Yokoawa could tell that that all-too-familiar smirk had graced Masamune's features.

"So, Kirishima-san, huh?" he said, in that tone of voice he only used when he intended to hold something over Yokozawa's head _forever_.

" _Oh hell no,_ " Yokozawa said, spinning around to face him.

"Oh hell _yes_ ," Masamune's expression was pure _evil_. "We _so_ are talking about this."

Yokozawa buried his face in his hands.

"You're _never_ gonna let this go, are you?"

"Nope," he looked entirely too happy for his own good, his smirk a full-blown devilish smile by now. "Well? Are you guys together?"

Yokozawa shifted uncomfortably. It was _way too soon_ and way too unlike him to be admitting their relationship like this.

"…Yeah."

"Never pegged you as liking that type," Masamune said contemplatively. "You always used to go for the stodgy ones, and I could never understand why. Glad to see you've finally wised up."

"Wh-they weren't _stodgy_. They were _intelligent and conscientious_."

"I rest my case." His grin broadened. "Although, remember that _one_ phase you had with Fumiko-chan, when-"

" _Yes I do_." Yokozawa hurriedly cut him off before they could start reminiscing on his _truly embarrassing_ street punk phase.

Masamune started laughing, a genuine, _happy_ laugh. It had been _so long_ since Yokozawa had heard that sound that it sounded alien to his own ears, yet came with the haunting familiarity of an old favorite song. A bittersweet pang rushed to his chest as he recalled the time when he had been the only one to elicit and to hear it.

He forced himself to maintain an impassive mien and tossed back lightly, "Well, at least I'm not the one who slept with his college professor, because, and I quote, I wanted to see if I could get her to do it."

Masamune colored, and Yokozawa couldn't help but let out a laugh of his own at him being the one lost for words for once.

"At least I didn't date a _yandere_!"

"Well, at least I didn't have weird object-insertion fantasies!"

"At least I didn't walk in on my roommate's girlfriend trying to rekindle his lost boner!"

" _AT LEAST I DIDN'T HAVE SEX WITH THE DOOR OPEN!"_

Despite barely being able to get the words out, they weakly spit fragmented insults at each other, clutching at their aching sides as they laughed and laughed. And Yokozawa realized how _much_ he'd missed this, this easy companionship where he knew everything about the other person.

"So?" Masamune gasped out, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, "How big is it?"

"How big is _what_?" Yokozawa said, confused for a second before realization dawned on him and he punched Masamune in the arm.

" _No comment,_ " he tried to hide the furious warmth rising in his cheeks as some _very_ inappropriate thoughts concerning the organ in question lodged themselves firmly into his mind.

"Hey, at least tell me whether you're the dog or the cat!"

"I'm _leaving!"_

And with their combined laughter reverberating in his ears, Yokozawa basked comfortably in the knowledge that they were well on the way to normalcy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments make me happy and motivate me to keep writing! Also I really really enjoyed writing the MasaZawa banter XD


	5. Trepidation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, things are really starting to heat up now, aren't they?

Kirishima’s eyes fluttered open in the muted light of not-quite dawn, when the mesh of sleep still entrapped the rest of the little house.

That, in itself, was strange, but the eerie _déjà vu_ that flooded him at the sight of the indistinct contours of Yokozawa’s turned back, had his body tensing and heart beating faster.

_This wasn’t another of those dreams, was it?_

Momentary apprehension shivered down his spine, but even as he leaned over, across the body-warmed sheets and the gentle rise and fall of Yokozawa’s – yes, _Yokozawa’s_ body in tandem with his breathing, he knew it wasn’t. The figure’s masculine build, coupled with the set of distinct features that was so unmistakably _him,_ instantly dispelled any and all of Kirishima’s doubts.

 

 _A dream couldn’t be this_ warm.

 

There was no missing the tenderness that softened Kirishima’s gaze as the half-light cast Yokozawa’s face into unusual openness. He brushed inky hair away from his forehead, taking in the unexpectedly long eyelashes that laid their feather-light touches over cheeks flushed from sleep. He looked uncharacteristically _vulnerable_ , like the armor he always seemed to carry on his back had fallen away.

In that moment, Kirishima honestly couldn’t understand how anyone could think of this man as anything but so _unbearably cute._

Even before he realized it, a smirk had crept to his lips. Seeing Yokozawa in such a defenseless state set his mind to formulating a thousand evil schemes. It pretty much gave him free reign to do anything he pleased. After thinking for a moment, he rummaged around for a sticky note and began to scribble, smirk widening by the second.

 

By the time he emerged from the bedroom, the sky was just beginning to flush a purple-rose, waking up from its slumber with the scent of the stirring earth, punctuated occasionally by the chirp of a bird flying free, swallowed up by the horizon.

“Figures,” he muttered to himself, getting out a skillet. The _ridiculously_ early hour had already begun to tell on him. It seemed like the night’s sleep had done exactly _nothing_ to refresh him, but he didn’t feel like going back to sleep.

He smothered a cough as he tried to shake off he now-familiar ache in his bones, only intensified by the nip of impending winter in the morning air. Maybe he _was_ getting old.

 

He should _really_ take Yokozawa’s advice and consult a doctor. Making a hasty mental note, he soon pushed the though to the back of his mind as he set about rooting out supplies from the kitchen shelves.

The omelets were sizzling in the pan by the time Hiyori emerged from her room, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Good morning Papa, Yokozawa-onii- oh!” she began, and then uttered an exclamation of surprise at the ominous sight of Kirishima at the kitchen counter. Her sleepy expression immediately changed to one of apprehension as her mind processed the image. “Papa, you _know_ you’re hopeless in the kitchen! You should just leave the cooking to oniichan.”

Her eyes darted about the kitchen, looking for any imminent disaster brought about by Kirishima’s culinary endeavors.

“Hey, even I can handle an omelet.” Kirishima said, turning them over in the pan. “It even smells good, see? Go wake up your oniichan and I’ll serve you- he’s in my room.”

“Ye…s,” Hiyori conceded reluctantly, pattering off down the hallway.

He kept one eye on the skillet even as he focused on listening to the conversation from the other room. An amused smile played at his lips as he heard Hiyori’s cheerful greeting, followed by a slightly higher-pitched interjection of surprise. Yokozawa’s resultant sound of irritation had his smile widening into a full-blown grin as the door to his room burst open. He counted backwards in his head.

 

_Three, two, one… any moment now._

“Mind explaining to me _exactly_ why I woke up with ‘I’m madly in love with Kirishima Zen!!!!!~~~~<3<3<3’ taped to my forehead? And why you sent _Hiyo_ in to wake me _twenty minutes_ before my alarm?!”

“Early riser privileges~” he replied, an irrepressible laugh escaping him at Yokozawa’s obvious annoyance.

“Early riser my _ass._ No one does shit like this to _you_ when I practically have to drag your ass out of bed every day!”

“Oh, I’d _love_ to wake up with _‘I’m madly in love with Yokozawa Takafumi’_ written on me.” Kirishima _loved_ toying with Yokozawa like this. The man just got _adorably_ riled up over the smallest things.

“Why you—!”

“It’s the truth, after all~”

 

Yokozawa was mercifully delivered from any more of Kirishima’s relentless teasing by the appearance of Hiyori, who laid the table with a “I made your bed, seriously, you guys are so _untidy!”_

 

“And _I_ even made you breakfast as a penance,” Kirishima said, transferring the cooked omelets to three plates. “Come on, wipe that surly look off your face. Although I must admit, it only adds to your cuteness.”

 

“…….!” Yokozawa blushed a faint crimson, but wisely chose not to contend the matter in front of Hiyori, instead reining in his burgeoning exasperation as he helped Kirishima take the plates to the table. Granted, the omelets weren’t as soft as Yokozawa’s, but, on the upside, the kitchen wasn’t a smoldering wreck, either.

“Mmmmm, that looks good~” Hiyori said, looking over them with a critical eye.

 

“Thanks for the meal!” they chorused as they dug in. Kirishima looked over them fondly, at Hiyori pleading with Yokozawa to do her hair _that way you did it yesterday_ again, at Yokozawa’s uncharacteristic smile as he yielded to her demands.

They were his _family._

* * *

 

 

“Are you trying to tell me that Kyou-sensei’s manuscript has _still not arrived?”_ Kirishima, seated in his chair, said to Hitomi, who was frantically barking orders into his phone. A note of annoyance was barely audible in his voice.

It was only the early days of the cycle, but Ijjuin Kyou, the erratic _mangaka_ of _Monthly Japun_ ’s bestselling series, _Za Kan,_ was supposed to be sending in its first few pages that day. Any disruption in the pattern would lead to a frantic scramble on the last days, a situation Kirishima wished _at all costs_ to avoid.

 _But it’s_ way _too early in the cycle for him to be having his breakdown…_

“Kasagawa!” Kirishima flagged down a passing subordinate. “Call the front desk and check if Kyou-sensei’s manuscript has arrived yet.”

“I’m on it!” he chirped, hurrying to the nearest desk and dialing the extension. After a few moments, he reported back to Kirishima. “They say it’s just arrived, and they’re sending it over right now!”

Kirishima breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m going to go take a break. Tell Hitomi we’ve received the manuscript.”

 

* * *

 

After sending the built-up stress spiraling away with the white-smoke clouds of a cigarette or five, Kirishima headed back to his desk and saw the manuscript neatly placed there. He hummed in satisfaction as he opened it, fingers almost thrilling with anticipation. Reading new works of Kyou-sensei’s was always a pleasure.

The illustration that emerged, though, upon sliding out the document, was… well, a _lot_ more reminiscent of the shojo department’s works. The sinking suspicion in his chest was confirmed as he took in the title, emblazoned in hot pink amidst sundry rabbits and flashy graphics.

 

_Diamond Heart V_

“Ah _fuck,”_ he muttered under his breath, sighing as he dialed the extension for _Emerald._

“Yes, this is _Emerald,_ how may we help you?” the perky voice of Kisa Shouta, Marukawa Shoten’s resident baby face, sounded over the line. Not a soul could have guessed that he was actually over thirty.

“Ah, Kisa. Could you put Takano on the line for me?”

“Oh, Kirishima-san! Takano-san’s gone for the _Diamond Heart_ Board meeting. Can I take a message?”

 

_What._

 

“It seems like the front desk managed to mess up our manuscripts. I think that Takano’s received this month’s issue of _Za Kan,_ because I have _Diamond Heart._ I’ll get it sent to your department now, so could you do the same?”

“Sure, no problem. I’ll go right away! Thanks for your hard work!”

When he heard the click on the other end of the line, Kirishima put down the phone, his chest stirring in discomfort.

 

_Takano was on the Board too._

_Meaning that Yokozawa and him were working together._

Of course, that was the logical conclusion, considering the fact that Takano was the editor for Ichinose Erika’s _Diamond Heart._ But still…

_Why hadn’t Yokozawa told him?_

Of course, he understood that Yokozawa wasn’t quite ready to freely discuss him, not in general and especially not with Kirishima. And his good sense repeatedly reminded him of this fact, but the _dark_ that so often poisoned his thoughts insisted that

_No matter how he looked at it,_

_Yokozawa didn’t trust him enough._

He flopped his head down to rest on his desk. He did _not_ have time to agonize over his roiling emotions, not when he had an entire manuscript left to edit. A faint cloud of a million iridescent dust motes swirled into the air from the long-unused paraphernalia populating his desk. It hazed everything over for a moment before some, invariably, travelled up his nose. He groped for a handkerchief to stifle his resultant sneeze.

He had hardly opened his eyes again when he was overtaken by the strongest coughing fit he’d ever had. His throat burned like fire as the hacking coughs clawed their way up it, tearing out of it violently, like birds imbued with savagery.

When he pulled the cloth from his lips, it was stained with blood.

A cold chill crept over his heart as he took out his phone with numb fingers and made an appointment with a physician straight after work.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The blank sterility of the big, multi-branched hospital he found himself in jarred Kirishima. Hospitals had _never_ been on his list of top ten vacation spots, especially in light of his experiences with them. He found it unnerving to list off his symptoms redundantly- he had them down by rote now, seeing as that, after a grim moment of consideration, his doctor had rattled off a list of tests he must take and departments he must visit.

Suffice to say, after having been poked with countless needles, subjected to enough x-radiation to kill off a small tissue culture, and having various body fluids drawn, Kirishima was _pretty fucking jumpy._

He jumped to his feet, glad of an excuse to do so, when the white-robed figure that carried more sway than any god in this temple approached him, customary impassive expression firmly in place.

“Kirishima-san, we’ll need to do a CT scan, along with a lung biopsy as soon as possible. Is tomorrow convenient?”

“Ah, yes,” Kirishima said distractedly. _A lung biopsy?_

“Very well. You may not eat or drink anything eight to ten hours before the tests, so I suggest you come in right after breakfast time.”

“Understood. I’ll come by around ten-thirty. May I ask what the symptoms mean?”

“It’s too early to tell anything yet, but we’ll have something more concrete after the biopsy. I’ll make you an appointment.”

“Thank you. Please excuse me.”

 “Please get some rest and take care not to exert yourself.”

 

Kirishima numbly exited the hospital and walked to the train station, mind in overdrive. If the _doctor_ had been so worried, it could be nothing good, could it? _But then again,_ he sternly reminded himself, _it’s kind of a medical profession prerequisite to look like that._

But suppose, just _suppose_ something should happen to him? If, in the worst-case scenario, should he have to go away for treatment, what would Hiyori do? Independent as she might seem, there was no way she could spent weeks, maybe even _months_ without him.

 

He knew, in his heart, that Yokozawa would take care of her as he had. But who would take care of _Yokozawa?_ And how would _Kirishima_ possible survive any length of time away from him? From Hiyo? And his _job—_

Kirishima firmly stoppered this train of thought before it could drag on any further, walking more briskly. Worrying like this would get him nowhere, except maybe on the way to a stomach ulcer in addition to whatever he had coming to him.

And hey, he _didn’t_ know what he had coming to him, so there was an equally high possibility that it was only something minor. He’d be _fine._ He couldn’t tell Yokozawa yet, no use in getting him to worry over what was probably nothing, especially when he had the whole Editorial Board thing on his plate.

Autumn was at its close, and a chill permeated the air, its haughty gaze watching over the commuters like some esoteric god. The scent of summer sakura still lingered.


	6. Not a chapter.

Guys, I have a serious question. Should I even continue with this story? It just feels kind of pointless if no one reads it and I have a sinking feeling it's crap. So. I don't even know.


	7. Intimation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS. IS. LITERALLY. One of the two chapters I wrote this entire story for. I really really really love this chapter, and THANK YOU EVERYONE SO SO SO MUCH for your words of encouragement, just for you guys, I'm NOT going to give up writing this. I'll reply to y'all privately later, but, for now, I think you guys deserve some public credit.

“And that concludes the Editorial Board meetings for _Diamond Heart._ Thank you for your hard work, everyone!”

Takano breathed out an exhale of relief that seemed to echo from the very peripheries of his body. Even though he _had_ enjoyed stepping foot briefly into the world of animation and doing something different for a change, he was nonetheless glad to get back to editing full-time. The screen may be a passing fascination, but books were his one true love.

“Good work today,” he muttered as he hurried past his coworkers, nodding briefly to Yokozawa before he made his grateful exit from Marukawa Shoten. The cool air slapped at his face, doing a better job of dispelling the fuzz clouding his mind that the countless cups of coffee he’d consumed through the night.

The morning air was crisp and fresh and cool, and he just _stopped_ for a moment to wonder, as he often had, at the curious sense of _rebirth_ buoying him at the end of every cycle when others were practically dead on their feet.

 

Takano just reached a state between sleep and wakefulness where both were overwhelming and neither manifested itself.

 

It sharpened his senses and made his moments flow in jerks as he rode the train. He reveled at the momentary quiet inside his head as the static slowly cleared.

The mood prevailed, right up until he got to his apartment building and made straight for Onodera’s door, banging insistently on it until he opened it, rumpled-looking and with his customary pissy expression in place, and a pissier “What?” directed at him.

God, Takano wanted to _mess him up,_ suck bruises onto the collarbones that protruded from the huge sweater that clung to him _just right_ , bury his face in the soft chocolate hair and just breathe in the scent of old books and wood that felt like _home._ He wanted to take him to bed,watch those shimmering eyes fill with tears and those cheeks tint sunset hues as the alabaster curve of his back arched in a deep bow of pleasure.

He wanted to _make love_ to Ritsu.

So he sealed their lips together, swallowing his faint complaints, and kissed him slow and deep, walking him inside as the door swung shut behind them. He ventured a tongue inside, let it curl around Onodera’s as he pushed him up against the wall, maybe rougher than he had originally intended, but the low whimper that tore out of Onodera’s throat told him just how _much_ he liked it. He picked him up, mouths hungry, still devouring each other wet and sloppy and absolutely _filthy._

When they broke away, gasping for breath, a thin line of saliva still connecting their lips, Takano seized the opportunity to tip the smaller man back until he was carrying him bridal style. The flush mixing with the lightness of his skin, dyeing it an enticing pink, deepened into a _delicious_ carmine as he struggled ineffectually against Takano’s hold.

“T-Takano-san, stop it! Why are you even--!”

Takano just pressed a kiss to the burning cheek. “Isn’t it obvious?” he murmured into Onodera’s ear. The voice that sounded out was so low and rough that the taller man could barely recognize it as his own. “I’m going to _eat you up, Ritsu.”_

And the way Onodera shivered at those words went _straight_ to his hips, eradicating any patience he had left.

 “ _Shit…”_ he groaned under his breath, carrying Onodera as fast as his current fatigued state would allow, kicking open the door to the bedroom before throwing him onto the bed and caging him between his arms, their faces inches from each other.

“Come on, tell me what you want,” Takano whispered teasingly. Onodera just clenched his eyes shut, looking away, until the older man pushed his hips down, making their arousals brush together. _Then_ Onodera let out a gasp, trying his hardest to bury his head into the pillow. Takano forced his chin towards himself.

“Are you _trying_ to turn me on?” he muttered darkly. His lover’s trembling form, the blush now creeping down his neck, the helpless, bitten-back sounds he made when Takano pushed their hips together, all served to make a potent aphrodisiac that made his body so hot he could barely _breathe._ Verdant orbs flashed open as Onodera finally found the strength to try and push him away. “N-no, stop saying such embarrassing things…”

 

“Shut up. _Ritsu._ ”

 

Takano reclaimed the lips of the man beneath him, hands making short work of the clothing that still separated them as their tongues reacquainted themselves with every crevice of the other’s mouth. Onodera gasped and arched as Takano tweaked over his nipples, followed by his tongue that laved over them and forced them into hard pebble. One of his hands explored lower and the other found its way into that mouth so quick to negate and deny.

“Sensitive,” he quipped with a smirk as Onodera’s instinctive sucking on them was interrupted by a moan at the scrape of his teeth over one erogenous peak. Onodera made a muffled noise of indignant dissent even as Takano pulled his fingers out.

“ _Anyone_ would react if you did such… perverted things… _haa—,”_ the end of his sentence dissolved into a moan as Takano mouthed over his exposed desire, at the same time sneaking a finger behind to probe at the tight muscle there. He soon relaxed into it, sucking in earnest to distract his lover while he loosened him up. He was cursory with the preparation, knowing Onodera didn’t really need it considering how often they did this.

Enjoyable as it was watching Onodera writhe under his ministrations when he curled his fingers to brush against _that_ spot, Takano felt like he would spontaneously combust with the heat of his own desire if he _didn’t_ get inside the green-eyed man _soon._

Pressing a final kiss to the base of Onodera’s throbbing shaft, he lined himself up, bracing himself over the trembling man on his elbows so that he could _see_ the look of pleasure-pain on his face, watch as the lines blurred for him until he couldn’t tell which was which. See proof of what _Takano_ had done to him, how utterly _Takano_ had overwhelmed him.

 

 _“Ahh…”_ Onodera’s voice hitched on a high keen as Takano pushed in to the hilt, giving him a moment to adjust before beginning to thrust. He _loved_ seeing his movements play out on the jade screen of those eyes, see the face he made every time Takano thrust deep, and the naked desire flash in them each time he hit that sweet, _sweet_ bundle of nerves deep inside him.

 

He was slowly losing his _mind._

It was dissolving in the way Onodera’s moans, the full, rich ones he couldn’t bite back any longer, echoed in his ears. _Melting_ in the way Onodera’s hands scraped lines of oozing blood-red into the planes of his back as the pleasure threatened to sweep him away. _Sublimating_ in the way, despite his pretenses, Onodera’s hips twitched up to meet his, desire brushing against Takano’s abdomen, desperate little whimpers leaving his throat on every stroke as Takano’s thrusts gained rhythm and speed.

 

“Takano-san, _no,_ not… so hard… _ahnn!” Ritsu_ groaned from underneath him, but there was no _way_ Takano could slow down now, hips pounding into him at a merciless rhythm, the slender body underneath him belying his words, meeting him thrust for thrust as their moans built in climax.

 

Their fingers intertwined.

 

 _“Ritsu,”_ Takano moaned into his ear, and a half-scream sounded in the gloom of the room as something warm splattered his chest.

“I _love_ you.”

And the edges of Takano’s vision went fuzzy as white-hot release seized him and threw him into waves of blinding pleasure.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When he came to, the sun was nigh overhead, casting Onodera’s room into a glowing orb. The scent of lavender soap and woodsy sprite that still lingered in the sheets mixed in with the musk of lovemaking, caressed him. He was slow to rouse, as if the golden sunlight had saturated the little room with viscous honey as he walked to the bathroom to wash up.

The red string of fate, as if taking on a physical quantity, drew him after up, inexorably to Onodera after he'd finished up. The younger man was sitting on his couch, looking over manuscripts, hair askew and soft as the cashmere that hung off him looking seven kinds of sinful.

He wrapped his arms around him, ignoring the way the smaller body instantly stiffened. He took a fervent joy in that he _could_ now, that it wouldn’t dissipate like the elusive mirages of his dreams, and kissed at the pink that stained his cheeks deeper the longer his hands lingered.

“Hey, go on a date with me,” he murmured into the gentle curve of Onodera’s ear.

“ _Huh—?”_

The fine skin beneath his lips heated and colored as Onodera, suddenly embarrassed, strove to break his grip.

 _Is he an idiot?_ Takano laughed softly to himself. _He can_ never _break this grip we have on each other._

“Go on a date with me,” he repeated insistently.

“………………….”

Onodera looked away in an agony of mortification, blush only deepening with each passing second. Finally, under Takano’s unwavering gaze, an almost imperceptible duck of his head.

“Thank you,” Takano brought his mouth down to claim the rosy one beneath his. And the kiss stole his breath away as much as it did Onodera’s.

 

“Go get ready,” he whispered in Onodera’s ear as they broke away.

 

* * *

 

Takano had never cared about appearances, but Onodera as he leaned over the bridge railing, scattering the scraps from their picnic lunch to the ducks, was a _vision._ His figure, stark white against the shadowy backdrop of the late afternoon mist, which enveloped the tops of tall trees as it blurred away the edges of bushes into a verdant vignette made a picture Takano wanted to lock away forever in the corner of his heart reserved for precious things.

A fragrant haze from its heavy-scented flowers hung over the secluded garden where Takano reclined on the grass. A rare smile graced his features as he watched Onodera’s face light up when the snow-white birds flocked around to eagerly peck at the food he scattered, creating ripples in the sparkling clarity of the little brook the ran under the bridge.

“Ritsu,” he beckoned. Onodera looked up, familiar blush creeping up his cheeks at the use of his given name.

“W-what do you want?” he called back, letting all the leftover crumbs go in a fluster.

“Let’s take a walk,” Takano said, walking over himself to take hold of his hand, leading them over to the cobblestoned little path out of the park, wooded with leafless Sakura trees.

 

Onodera flushed, but he didn’t let go.

 

* * *

 

“Ummmm, Takano-san?” Onodera said from where he was snugly nestled under the crook of Takano’s arm as they came down from their post-coital highs. “Could you let me go now?”

Takano simply held him tighter. “No can do.”

“Takano-san, seriously! Please get _off_ me!” he squirmed, kicking at the black comforter to no avail.

Takano just ignored him, reaching over to grab a cigarette from the bedside table.

“I’m _not kidding._ Do you _not_ have _anything_ else to do?”

 

“…………..”

 

“…………..”

 

“…………..”

 

“Oh _motherfuck.”_

Takano grabbed his phone off the table, checking the time before bolting out of bed, muttering curses as he hurriedly dressed himself.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, that bastard is _anal_ about punctuality.”

“Hmmm? Where are you going all of a sudden?” Onodera said, sitting up in alarm.

“I promised I’d meet Yokozawa for drinks today,” Takano grabbed his coat from the hook. Normally, he wouldn’t even bother, probably shooting off text to Yokozawa that he’d be running late and might not even show up at all, but he didn’t want to do anything to jar the fragile equilibrium they’d managed to find.

 

He knew his life was fucked up when he walked on eggshells around _Yokozawa._

“Ahhh… Yokozawa-san…” Onodera said, a cloud darkening his green eyes. Takano couldn’t resist the temptation.

“Yeah, speaking of, since we’ve reconciled, I might even ask him to _join_ us tonight. You know, in _bed,”_ he said, expression completely deadpan.

 Onodera almost tumbled out of the bed in horror.

_“No thank you very much.”_

Takano had to make a quick exit from the room to disguise his snicker of amusement. “I mean, he _isn’t_ bad looking,”

“ _Huh?!_ Takano-san, you will do absolutely _no_ such thing! Do you hear me? Takano-saaaaan!”

 

With Onodera’s panicked yells echoing behind him, Takano left the apartment, muffling his snort of laughter beneath his hand.

 

* * *

 

 

“And _then_ he says to me, ‘You’re so cute, Yokozawa~’. Masamune, _please_ explain to me how a 180 centimeters-plus man can possibly be _cute._ ” Yokozawa, downing his eighth beer of the night, groaned.

“It _does_ seem rather far-fetched,” Masamune replied smilingly. A drunk Yokozawa was always fun, seeing as he dropped his uptight persona and spilled his secrets, which he could _totally_ blackmail him with later.

He had to admit, though, that his relationship with Kirishima-san was of _some_ personal interest to him. The matter of just how his contrary, intimidating friend had landed himself such a polar opposite as Kirishima piqued his interest. 

“Okay, Yokozawa, what do you even _like_ about him? From your accounts thus far, it seems like you just think him an annoying asshole.”

This gave Yokozawa food for thought, and he backed up, coloring.

“It’s not… that…” he floundered, and Takano, well aware of his _tsundere_ tendencies, only smirked at his chagrin. “It’s not like I _hate_ him or anything. Sure, he _is_ an annoying asshole when he gets it into his head to tease me, but he’s also someone I greatly respect. I mean, his work his flawless, and he’s a great father to Hiyo at the same time. That can’t be easy. Also, I don’t _entirely_ hate it when he sleep-talks...”

Yokozawa looked away, and Takano was sure that the flush on his cheeks wasn’t just from the alcohol any more. _Just_ for a moment, he could see where Kirishima-san was coming from when he insisted on calling Yokozawa _cute._

“How’d you get to know him, anyway? You barely interacted at work before.”

 

“………………..”

 

Yokozawa hesitated, the furrow back in his brow as if weighing his options. Jesus, do _not_ tell him they met on Grindr or something.

 

“It was because of _you,_ actually.”

 

 

Well, _that_ was unexpected.

 

 

“Because of me?” Takano repeated, thoroughly confused. He didn’t remember introducing them.

Yokozawa deliberated for a moment, then took a deep breath, like a man preparing to take a plunge.

“It was the day you… gave me that ultimatum. I went to a bar and got drunk off my ass, and he happened to be at the same place. It was quite pathetic, actually. I literally dragged him down to listen to me whine about you,” he said, forcing a laugh that seemed to be punched out of his chest.

 A flare of irritation ignited in Takano’s chest.

“Why do you always do this?” he snapped, alcohol-fed Molotov cocktail razing his patience. “Why do you _always_ play it off like it’s no big deal?”

 The burn seemed to spread to Yokozawa’s own incandescent annoyance. “What do you want me to _do,_ Masamune?” he retorted bitterly. “Tell you all about how utterly pitiable I had been? How much I loved you, how _much,_ how I deserve you more than Onodera because I literally _dragged_ your stupid ass out of the gutter when he just left you, how I pined after you for _ten fucking years?”_

 

Takano kissed him.

 

These words, selfish, lashing, _true,_ were so uncharacteristic of the Yokozawa who had stayed by his side all these years, had loved him and _kept it in,_ that they struck all the more home.

Thing was, Takano _knew_ how he felt.

He’d felt much the same way about Onodera.

So he _couldn’t. Couldn’t_ stand that pain in Yokozawa’s eyes as he laid his soul bare for Takano to see, his emotions spewing out like newly uncorked champagne, aided and abetted by inebriation. _Couldn’t_ stand the thought that _he’d_ been the cause of it, that it was _him_ who had pulled his proud man, his best friend, down into the hellish prison of unrequited love.

 

So he kissed him.

 

His hands held fast to Yokozawa’s shirt as their lips pressed together chastely. Takano inhaled the faint scent of cherry blossoms that always seemed to cling to him now.

 

 _“Takafumi,”_ he said, barely a whisper. “Thank you for loving me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now do you understand?


	8. Despair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's just say, I'm going to drop three bombshells on you guys in this story. Number one was the previous chapter, and number two is this one. Pardon the medical inaccuracies, and put them aside for the sake of this story.

_He fucking_ kissed _me._

The realization that Yokozawa should be _much_ more horrified dimly filtered through to his alcohol-hazed mind. But he felt _scarily_ calm as he looked at Masamune’s sleeping face on his futon. There had been no way he could have gone home after the volume of alcohol they’d consumed, so Yokozawa had laid out his spare futon for him. He had gone to sleep within minutes.

Yokozawa had forgotten that the guy was a fucking _sponge_ as far as alcohol was concerned, but his body could only take so much drinking before he eventually, invariably, passed out.

 

How many years had it been since he’d seen Masamune’s face like this? Since he’d seen him look so painfully _young_ and pure; like the years fraught with heartbreak and the divorce of his parents and the pernicious mixture of nameless fucks, nicotine and alcohol he’d tried to fill the void with had left nary a mark on him?

He realized with a start that Masamune’s expression was the same one it had been ten years ago, _that_ time.

 _And we’d been drunk back then too,_ Yokozawa thought, a bitter taste creeping into his mouth.

 

Nothing had changed.

 

And yet, _everything_ had changed.

 

Because for a moment, Yokozawa had pictured them back in college, but he _knew_ that they’d both changed. Masamune had gotten more mature, had gained so much more self-confidence, morphing from an acutely sensitive, aloof teenager to the charming man who had pulled _Emerald_ out of hibernation, from the bottom to the top.

And _yet,_ when he dropped his professional mien, he was still, in so many ways, the moody, taciturn eighteen-year-old Yokozawa had met all those years ago.

He’d walked into class in the middle of term, this Takano boy with the distant expression and the sad eyes that girls whispered about and the boys maintained a wary distance from. Yokozawa, not being an overly sociable person, had not had occasion to have an actual conversation with him until a good few months into his arrival.

They’d chanced upon each other in the library, when Masamune had spotted him reading one of his favorite books, and had struck up a conversation.

And while Yokozawa didn’t believe in _fate_ or any superstitious bullshit like that, he _did_ believe that it was, at once, one of the best and worst things that had ever happened to him.

“What do you _want?”_ Yokozawa had finally snapped, after Masamune had peered fixedly over his shoulder at the book for about five minutes.

 

“Kaori dies in the end, you know. Right after she finds out that Masato is the killer and also her father.”

 

“Thanks a _lot.”_ Yokozawa had turned his soon-to-be customary glare onto him, laying on the sarcasm heavily.

 

Unfazed, Masamune had taken a seat across from him. “That one wasn’t as good as the rest, anyway. You read any others?”

 

“Are you _kidding?_ I have every book Sagara-sensei has ever released.”

 

For the first time since Masamune’s appearance, Yokozawa had seen a spark, a dull flicker of interest in those strange eyes of his. He’d held out a hand.

“Takano Masamune.”

“Yokozawa Takafumi. Nice to meet you,”

 

And the rest, as they say, had been history.

 

They’d just _clicked,_ andas they’d spent more and more time together, Yokozawa had begun to unravel the puzzle that was Takano Masamune, with his fragile heart and sensitive soul. But as he silently let him in at all hours of the night, as he became a permanent fixture at formerly solitary meals, as Yokozawa carried him home and treated his wounds after he hadn’t appeared that night;

Yokozawa, in turn, found out about the boy who’d run off and broken his heart, the parents who were simply props in his familial charade, and the despair he nonetheless felt when they parted ways for good.

 

And Yokozawa had never been good at expressing the affection he’d developed for this reticent boy, but as Masamune’s armor slowly chipped off, bit by bit, they’d developed their own form of wordless communication.

 

It was what had buoyed them through when Masamune had _snapped._ Throughthe _months_ of self-destruction following that horrible day when he’d stood holding the receiver in his trembling hands, just getting out _he has a fiancée_ in a horrible, choked voice before reaching straight for the liquor cabinet.

 

And Yokozawa almost hadn’t _noticed_ how this bond, on his side, at least, had deepened into something _more._

Not until Masamune had started to come to him every night, looking starved and smelling like a different person every time, with a fog of goodness-knows- _what_ in his eyes, and Yokozawa could do nothing but _watch._ He had fought it back, just opening the door for him with his usual, _“So you aren’t dead yet. Congratulations.”_

But the green-eyed monster that had taken up residence in his chest had refused to go away even when Masamune had been fed, clean and resting on Yokozawa’s bed with a book in hand.

It had kept eating away at him intermittently, but it wasn’t until Yokozawa had dragged him, half-dead, out of an alley, after searching for him for _three days,_ with blood crusted on his thighs and suspicious white stains on his clothes, that the braces had _broken._

He’d made Masamune delete all the contacts on his phone, _every single one,_ and had tried not to read too much into the fact that Yokozawa’s had been the only ne he’d kept.

But Yokozawa was only human, and humans aren’t immune to demands of instinct.

And before he knew it, his hand had gripped Masamune’s chin, forcing those eyes of clear amber to _look at him._

“ _Promise me,”_ he’d snarled. “Promise meyou’ll _never_ sleep around again.”

The familiar shade of apathy had iced over Masamune’s features again as he’d tried to pry Yokozawa’s hand from him without replying. Yokozawa had known by then that it was only a thin veneer for his fragility.

 

“……………………”

 

“ _I’ll…_ do it, okay?” he’d finally spit out, inebriation along with wild, reckless _possessiveness_ making it easier to spit out the words. “I’ll give you…”

_anything._

“…whatever you get with them. So please, Masamune. _Don’t do that again.”_

_I love you._

And before Masamune could have ventured forth any reply, Yokozawa had sealed their lips together, putting into that bruising kiss all the passion of the wild jealousy that had possessed him of late. Masamune’s hands, lying limply by his sides, had frozen in shock for only a moment before coming up to lock behind Yokozawa’s neck, throwing all his _hurt_ into the way he had deepened the kiss, fast and sloppy and _dirty._

And for once Yokozawa had let the monster have free reign as he pushed Masamune down to stake his claim.

 

After it had come _that_ time, that blink-of-an-eye period when love had made an idealist of him. When he’d dared, for a few brief months, to hope to just _stay_ like this, by Masamune’s side, forever. To make him _happy_ like that, even when his regret over what they’d done had come through to him clearer than if he’d screamed it out.

 _Just give it time,_ he’d thought, _how long can one remain heartbroken?_

Sue him, he couldn’t stop himself from _hoping_ that he could become precious enough, make the one he loved _happy_ enough that the wounds left by Onodera’s callousness didn’t sting quite so much. Not when he was Masamune’s sole confidant and the only one he smiled for.

 

But the one thing he hadn’t understood, or had refused to understand, was that Masamune _never_ gave up on people he loved.

 

* * *

 

 

Yokozawa scrubbed a hand over his face, shaking himself out of his reverie. Somehow, it had been therapeutic. That Masamune had never felt anything for him, _would_ never feel anything for him beyond a strong bond of friendship, was clearer in his mind than ever. Maybe without the baggage tying them down, they could have had something beyond that, but, much as Yokozawa hated subscribing to shitty didactic sayings, _it just wasn’t meant to be._

He understood, now, the meaning of that kiss.

 

It felt like _closure._

* * *

“Ow, _fuck,”_ Yokozawa opened his eyes to a pounding headache, the profanity being his instinctive reaction when he accidentally sent his shrilly ringing alarm clock flying.

He was answered by an annoyed groan from somewhere in the room, and all the memories of the previous night came back to him in a sickening rush as he spotted Masamune sprawled out on his futon, glaring at him with sleep-clouded eyes.

“Shut the fuck up,” Masamune muttered, throwing a hand over his eyes to block out the intrusive sunlight. “And _turn that thing off_ before I do something to it.”

Yokozawa wanted to _dig a pit into the ground and bury himself in it_ as the… _interesting_ memories of last night hit him full force. He numbly fished out the painkillers he kept in his bedside drawers for _exactly_ such occasions. He swallowed one pill and threw the other plastic tab to Masamune.

“Get your ass out of my bed, we have _work._ Take this and get decent. _”_

He tried to act as normal as possible as he retrieved his alarm clock from the bedding and turned it off before escaping to the bathroom. Jesus, what was _it_ with Masamune and embarrassing revelations?

They’d _have_ to talk about this, but Yokozawa could afford to put it off and stew in his embarrassment alone a while longer while he took the _slowest_ shower he conceivably could.

 

* * *

 

Yokozawa cursed under his breath as was met by a significantly more awake-looking Masamune when he emerged from the shower. He’d _kind_ of been hoping that he’d still be asleep so that Yokozawa could sneak out past him.

 

“You sure that was long enough?” Masamune said sarcastically, brushing past Yokozawa into the shower. Yokozawa could only scowl at him as he went about dressing for work and cooking, from memory, pan-fried salmon.

He was putting the food onto two plates when Masamune walked into the kitchen, toweling his hair dry. Yokozawa tried not to stare too hard at he smooth, hard planes of his body. Although it had hardly been a criterion for his infatuation with him, there was no denying that the _Emerald_ editor-in-chief was _attractive._

“Hey, you remembered,” Masamune said when he spotted the salmon, flashing the smile that made the half-healed wounds in Yokozawa’s chest _ache._

“I could hardly forget that salmon’s your favorite when you were on my ass to make it for you half the time,” Yokozawa replied, putting the plates on the table and sitting across from him. “There. Eat up.”

“Thanks for the food,” Masamune said, taking a bite with that same soft smile still on his face. They ate in silence for a while before he ventured, “So I hear I’m quite the inadvertent matchmaker.”

“…………….!”

Yokozawa almost choked on his food but stared determinedly at his plate, trying to ignore the blush burning furiously on his cheeks.

“Let’s agree to _never_ talk about that again.”

Masamune laughed, and Yokozawa was startled into looking up.

“I’m happy for you,” he said, grabbing hold of Yokozawa’s hand across the table and squeezing briefly. His eyes were warm. “Really. You deserve it.”

And despite the blush now scorching his cheeks, he found it in himself to smile back.

 

Neither of them mentioned the kiss. By this point, neither had to.

 

* * *

 

“Well, oniichan, I’m off to bed!” Hiyori said, running into the living room where Yokozawa was sitting, making revisions to his Sales proposal. “Good night!”

“Good night,” Yokozawa said. “You want a bottle of water to keep in your room?”

“All taken care of~ Come on, Sora-chan, we’re off to bed!”

The cat, which had been curled up next to Yokozawa, promptly padded off after Hiyo, who waved to Yokozawa before disappearing into her room.

 

The day had been relatively relaxed for Yokozawa, since his subordinates had taken over part of his work to leave him room to juggle the _Diamond Heart_ Board work. It was the reason why he was currently sitting in the Kirishimas’ apartment at a comparatively early hour, in a more tranquil state of mind than usual. He hummed in contentment. Today had been a _good_ day.

 

A click at the door presently sounded, followed by the sounding out of Kirishima’s familiar tones. “I’m home~”

“Ah, welcome back,” Yokozawa watched in some alarm as Kirishima immediately flopped down on the couch beside him. “Rough day?”

He’d been thinking this for quite some time, but Kirishima really _did not look well._ His face was _definitely_ swollen, and the younger man had seen him scarily close to collapse on more than one occasion.

“Work was fine. _You_ certainly seem happy,” he replied, eyes closed.

Something in his tone instantly put Yokozawa on the defensive. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Hmmm? Nothing,” Kirishima said, going to get a beer from the fridge.

Yokozawa had been about to press him on his vague response when the beeping of the fax machine diverted his attention as it printed out a fax.

Kirishima’s hurried rush into the room was too late to prevent his cursory glance at the fax.

 

 

 

_Kirishima Zen_

_Diagnosis: Small Cell Lung Cancer (SCLC)_

“The _fuck?!”_  Yokozawa said, mind going blank with panic. He froze for a second before snatching the paper from the machine. His eyes scanned it hurriedly, and his heart

_Prognosis: 3 months from date of diagnosis, with radiation therapy._

_Chemotherapy not recommended due to extensive metastasis._

_Patient is required to visit Fukiyama Hospital at 10:55 for radiation session 5._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yokozawa’s lips blankly formed the words _three months_ over and over again before something else belatedly registered.

“Session _five? Just_ how long have you known about this?”

“About a month.”

Kirishima’s efforts to take the sheet back from Yokozawa had ceased, and he just stood there with a horrible, hollow loneliness in his eyes. Yokozawa felt terrible, blinding, _all-consuming_ rage filling him at Kirishima’s defeated admission.

“You have _TWO FUCKING MONTHS_ to live, and you didn’t even _consider_ that I might need to know?!”

He didn’t care if Hiyori woke up. All the wanted to do was give voice to the dread screaming in his head, to fill the cavernous void opening up his chest with _some action,_ so he did exactly that, grabbing Kirishima by the front of his shirt and yelling in his face.

“When the _fuck_ were you planning on telling me this, huh? Or did you just want me to wake up one day and find your corpse? I thought we were in this _together,_ damn you!”

“Yokozawa—”

But Yokozawa violently slapped away the hand Kirishima out of his arm to placate him, instead finding the intensity of his fury throwing Kirishima backwards onto the couch before it cocked Yokozawa’s fist back and connected it with his cheekbone with a sickening _crunch._

“You know what? _Fuck you._ Fuck you, _fuck you, FUCK YOU!”_

His voice rose in volume with every syllable, until he _knew_ that the neighbors would complain, and then did the only thing that made sense to him in that moment.

He grabbed his phone, keys and wallet, and, snatching his coat from the hanger, he _ran_ out of the house, the building, autumn wind cooling the hot tears on his cheeks he hastily wiped away. He _ran,_ not thinking, to the one place that held his treasure box of happy memories, the place the adult he was and the boy he had been had loved alike.

He ran to the _garden_.


	9. Cession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, y'all, for this short, filler-y chapter after that long wait. I just felt that this NEEDED to be there. This is just the buildup, but it's very emotion heavy, so grab them tissues!

The door slammed shut behind Yokozawa, leaving an awful, looming silence in its wake. Kirishima suddenly threatened to give out under him as the _reality_ of the situation hit him like a ton of bricks.

He was _dying_.

He was dying, and Yokozawa probably _hated_ him now. With good reason, too. He wasn't one to agonize over how he was a fuck-up, but that was the only thought reverberating sickeningly in his head right now. His vision swam, his throat itched and smarted and nausea roiled in the pit of his stomach as he held fast to the couch arm to gather his bearings. _Fucking radiation therapy._

He didn't notice that Hiyori had come in until she shook his arm, her panicked "Papa, Papa!" disorienting him as he fought against the bile rising in his throat.

"Ngh? Oh, it's you, Hiyo."

"Are you okay, Papa? I heard Yokozawa-oniichan yelling. Did you guys have a fight?" she said, looking at Kirishima with worried eyes.

"Yeah, you could say that," he muttered, taking her hand that rested upon his arm and squeezing. God, _Hiyori_. Hiyori with those _eyes_ and that _hair_ and that _smile_. _Sakura's_ features.

He saw his wife in her every little nuance and unconscious toss of her head, even in that steel-strong resolve and the way she held herself. _And he loved her every bit as dearly._ The more he watched his daughter, the more convinced he was that Sakura had always been his better half.

"You'd think some of that would have rubbed off," he murmured bitterly to himself.

"Huh?" Hiyori just looked at him, confused.

Without replying, Kirishima scooped her up in his arms and hugged her as _tight_ as he could. God, he _never ever_ wanted to let her go. She was the _light of his life_. She had been his one comfort, his one driving force ever since Sakura had passed. She was what made him get out bed and go to work in the mornings when old memories, racking him with pain, shackled him to it.

He loved her more than he could ever, _ever_ love anyone else. He loved her more than he could even hope to express in the words he was so fond of.

It was _just fucking ironic_ , wasn't it, how he _never_ got enough time with the people he loved?

His face screwed up in pure _agony_ and his heart honest-to-god seemed to _wrench_ into two as the pain ripped from his throat in a single, helpless sob.

 _Because_ how _do you tell a child who has lost her mother that her father is dying, too?_

"Papa?" Hiyori's distress was palpable in her rising pitch. "Are you... _crying_?"

_She needed to know. And Kirishima had to be the one to tell her._

"Hiyo. I have something really, really important to tell you. Promise me you'll be strong?"

He drew back from the hug and looked her in the eye. Despite the fear reflected clearly in her chocolate -brown ones, she steeled her expression, putting on a brave front.

"I promise."

Kirishima took a deep breath. It was a strange feeling, being on the precipice of ruining someone's life.

"I recently went to the doctor's because I haven't been keeping well. And, well, they diagnosed me."

"What is it? Is it very bad?"

"Yeah, pretty bad." He took her hand again, and held it fast. "I have cancer."

 

" _What_."

 

Her words came out as barely more than a horrible, strangled whisper.

 

 

"It's called Small Cell Lung Cancer," he supplied, knowing there was nothing he could do or say except just _be there_.

"Was this... why you and oniichan had that fight?" she asked, dazed, clutching on to Kirishima, still in that same tone of voice.

"Yeah, he found out before I could tell him myself."

They just rocked back and forth in silence for a beat, until Hiyori's grip on Kirishima's hand tightened.

"Papa, you aren't going to...?" Her voice trailed off, unable to bring herself to say the horrible word. When Kirishima didn't reply, her expression grew panicked, desperate. "Papa! You _aren't_ , right?! _Please_!"

 

There was a long moment of awful silence.

 

"The doctor says I've got two months," he finally said hollowly.

Abruptly, all her questions ceased. Their hands that had had a frantic grip on Kirishima fell, limply, to her sides. The distressed light in her eyes was extinguished, even as her father watched, and replaced with a calm void of despair. It was a look one should never see on a child.

"No, no, no no no no no," she kept muttering to herself. Tears welled up in her eyes and cascaded silently down her cheeks, but she made no effort to wipe them away. Kirishima brushed them away, the only thing he _could_ do for her. The crushing realization that there was absolutely _nothing_ he could do to ease the suffering of his most precious person, suffering that _he_ had caused, ate away at him slowly, painfully. He had to sit there and watch her _hurt_.

He breathed out _I'm sorrys_ into her hair, as he tucked her into bed, climbing in beside her, reassuring them both that he was still warm, solid, _there_. They were the only words he could muster, straight from the depths of his heart.

He didn't let go even as their tears mingled, even as her sobs lulled her into sleep with the tear tracks still glistening on her cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I'm VERY VERY VERY excited about the next chapter. Unexpected plot twists await you this coming Monday! It is the veritable climax.


	10. Infidelity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *drumroll* OKAY OKAY OKAY HEEEEERE'S THE CHAPTER I LITERALLY WROTE THIS ENTIRE 20K FIASCO FOR. BOMBSHELL 3. Like I had it in my drafts for a week, just trying to pace myself and not post all of them at once. And yet, here I am, posting this a day early because I absolutely could not restrain myself any further. You DO NOT UNDERSTAND how utterly precious this chapter is to me. It is, for all intents and purposes, my baby. So, here goes nothing.
> 
> Also, if you really really hate me for this chapter and want to bitch me out for the content of it, then please remember that THIS IS MY STORY. I wrote 20k words of it. I have literally poured my heart and soul into it for the past month, so I think it gives me the right to plot it like I want.
> 
> But if you want to bitch me out about my writing style or any mistakes I've made, please feel free! And as always, happy reading!

The fact that Onodera hadn’t shown up to work registered with Takano as soon as he sat down at his desk at _Emerald_ and found his blustering presence to be conspicuously absent.

_Strange,_ because Takano _knew_ how much of a dedicated worker his subordinate was, and this was the first time he’d taken a day off since he’d started working at Marukawa.

_Maybe he’s really sick?_

The worried thought lodged in his mind, he shot off a mail to Onodera, enquiring to the same effect before determinedly burying himself in the flurry of toner-less _doki doki_ scenes populating his desk that had unprecedentedly become his life. _Both literally and figuratively,_ he smirked bitterly to himself. Onodera always had him on edge, unable to think straight (ha) around him. It was only long-ingrained work ethic that made Takano able to work normally around the younger man.

His only comfort was that he wasn’t the only one who felt that way. He’d _seen_ Onodera blush and stutter around him, just completely blank out on what he had been doing, even as he vehemently denied it to his last breath. And although it was just part of who his lover _was_ , that he couldn’t bring himself to be honest, he could _really_ stand to be a bit more direct sometimes and _not_ do things by halves, like the cryptic reply of _come over after work; I need to talk to you_ that presently sounded at his phone.

He often thanked his lucky stars, whatever _those_ were, for his prowess at compartmentalizing his attention. It made him relatively productive even that day as the dirge of settling dread hammered away at the inside of his head.

 

* * *

 

Takano _ran_ up the stairs to their apartment building.

And it was _so fucking ironic,_ that Fate had thrown its cards down this way; his kouhai, all _eyes_ and feverish blushes and whispers of _Saga-senpai,_ whose heart had been Takano’s to break with a casual flick of his wrist now held all of _Saga-senpai’s_ marionette strings firmly in his hands.

 

_Oh, how the tables have turned._

_Because much, much as he might like to push Onodera down and_ make _him react to himself, tell Takano with his body what his stubbornness held back,_

_and much as he might just_ take _what Onodera’s reservations refused to give him, the fact was that those green eyes had broken his heart once_

_And they could do it_ again.

 

_And Takano couldn’t do a_ damn thing _about it._

__

* * *

 

 

 

He rang Onodera’s bell, trepidation straining to stay his hand, and held his breath.

The door opened with suspicious promptness,revealing the occupant, who certainly _looked_ in the pink of health. _Literally._ The blush on his cheeks would give a beet a run for its money.

_So it_ wasn’t _sickness that kept him from work?_

_So it was something_ worse?

 

“Well? Any reason you wanna give me before I dock your pay? Unless you’re on your deathbed, there’s no valid reason to skip work,” Takano started the conversation with a barb, familiar territory to mitigate the apprehension building steadily in his chest.

Onodera just turned, leaving the door open for Takano to follow behind.

He was _never_ like this.

 

_It’s really bad, isn’t it?_

Takano felt his apprehension curl into noxious fumes of absolute _dread_ as he followed the younger man inside.

 

* * *

 

Onodera’s house had been stripped bare.

 

 

The mess so characteristic of him had been packed away into boxes, the couch dismantled and folded away. The tiny apartment seemed strangely spacious in the absence of furniture.

Takano, quickly recovering from his surprise, just looked at Onodera, silently demanding an explanation. Had he finally acted on the moving crap he was always harping on about?

God, he _hoped_ that was all it was, that he could talk, or simply _sex_ Onodera out of it.

The eyes that had enraptured him, ten years ago, and refused to let go were downcast, looking down at the slender fingers that fidgeted in nervousness.

“I’m sure you’ve already figured it out, but… I’m moving.”

“And just _what_ is the point of it? You _do_ realize that this place is _walking distance_ from the train station, centrally located, _and_ at a reasonable price? Are you an _idiot?”_

Onodera’s eyes flashed. _There_ was the fire Takano loved so much, and the signal that it was okay to push him up against the nearest flat surface and extract an assurance that he wasn’t going anywhere. “I _know_ that! It’s not _about that—,”_

The taller man stalked towards him, Onodera taking simultaneous steps backwards until his back met the wall. Takano immediately caged him against it with his hands, the _fear_ in his heart somewhat allayed by the old familiarity of this dance, his own predetermined victory.

“What is it, then? Do you just hate living near me _that_ much?”

_Just_ a touch of vulnerability, creeping into the crevices of Onodera’s walls, and they’d come tumbling down. Takano began to mouth at his neck, and his lover’s hands, expectedly, came up to push him away while his voice offered futile resistance.

“Everything’s not about _you,_ Takano-san, let _go—,”_

Takano just tilted his chin up, jade meeting amber.

“Stop running, _Ritsu.”_

He kissed him deep and passionate and desperate, willing the hands still pushing ineffectually at his chest to melt at the sensuality like they always did.

 

Onodera tore his mouth away.

 

_“I’m moving to Switzerland.”_

Takano recoiled as if he’d been slapped.

 

The smaller man took shaky breaths, as if steadying himself, before he looked him in the eye. “I’m not coming back.”

 

The questions reverberated inside Takano’s head as he just _stood_ there, numb in shock, the full impact of Onodera’s words not quite hitting him yet. But the younger man ploughed on desperately, as if determined to finish his explanation now that he’d finally said those horrible words.

“The Swiss branch of Onodera Shuppen was originally overseen by An-chan, since she’s a close family friend. But she just recently took ill and needs a full-time caretaker. Now there’s no one to take care of that branch, and my dad can’t tell any of his subordinates to do it because the company’s going through a very bad period with backstabbers and defectors.”

Here he stopped, perhaps sensing the older man’s building hostility, before adding a note of entreaty to his voice.

“He didn’t tell me to take it up, Takano-san. But I can’t shirk my responsibilities, and I know An-chan would be so much more comfortable with someone she trusts taking care of her,” he looked at his addressee imploringly.

 

Takano didn’t _care._

He was deaf, blind, frozen with shock. The only thing he could think of was _not again._

Onodera was _not_ leaving him again.

He was _not_ getting his heart broken again.

He would _not_ suffer through the past ten years again.

He wanted to lock the green-eyed man away, tie him down and _make_ him stay. But somewhere deep down inside, he knew that even if he _did_ that, even if he forced himself into his home and his body, he’d wake up in the morning to find the bed empty.

 

Because there was _just_ no turning Onodera away from his responsibilities, and Takano knew that better than anybody.

 

“I’ll never forgive you, you know,” he whispered, a single tear snaking down his cheek as his knees gave out and he sunk to the floor.

All the _fight_ had gone out of him, the desire, no, _desperation_ to win the green-eyed man leaving him as he did the _one_ thing Takano could _never_ exonerate.

 

Onodera nodded, silently. “I know.”

Then he walked to where Takano was sitting, and pressed a single kiss to his lips, and then his hair.

“I’m sorry, Takano-san.”

 

The taller man stood.

 

“I never wanted to do anything _to_ you, _Ritsu._ I wanted to do it, _all_ of it, _with_ you.”

 

“I know.”

 

Takano could still taste the salt of Ritsu’s tears, feel the warmth of them in his hair as he silently left the apartment, the building. He broke into a run as the scent of autumn filled his nose and made his eyes sting.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He found himself back at the garden he’d stumbled upon with Yokozawa one day, when the latter had practically _dragged_ Takano along as he gallivanted around town on the pretext of _you’ll probably end up dead in a ditch somewhere if I leave you alone._

It held many, _many_ precious memories of long, sunny days spent in its embrace, running hands through the clear ice-cold sparkle of its little brook, all while talking about _cabbages and kings and shooting stars_ with a kindred spirit.

 

The memories it was rife with now, though, blotting out everything good and precious and _else,_ was

_Onodera leaning over the bridge railing_

_Onodera’s blush as Takano held his hand_

_Onodera by his side as they walked the sakura-wooded path._

_Onodera, Onodera, Onodera._

 

Ritsu, Ritsu, Ritsu.

 

_Why had he even come here?_ A sharp pain settled somewhere in his chest, a pain so sharp and so achingly familiar, that had taken _ten years_ to dull into inconsequentiality, and made all the more keen by his _connaisance_ of it.

He gasped for breath, eyes watering from he sheer _intensity_ of it, turning away when he spotted a figure hunched over the bridge. Its familiar size and shape bespoke only of one person.

 

_Yokozawa?_

Their eyes met, and Takano knew in an instant that something even more absolute and terrible than _his_ turn of events had happened.

Yokozawa was _crying._

Maybe that was what had him bridging the distance between them in five long strides, taking Yokozawa’s face into his hands.

As amber stared into blue-gray, each reflecting the other’s _agony,_ there was, like so often, no need for words between them.

 

He didn’t know who moved first. One moment, the pools of ice-blue, storm-grey ablaze with emotion were all he could see. The next, they were clinging onto each other, tasting the other’s desperation in the vitriol of their mingled tears as their mouths met again and again and _again,_ as if trying to smother the heat of emotion with the scorch of passion.

A sickening sense of _déjà vu_ washed over him, _here they were again, drunk on grief, trapped amidst a maelstrom of unresolved emotion, primal instinct seeking comfort, Takano from heartbreak, Yokozawa from goodness-knows-what._

_What goes around, comes around._

_But not in the way we expect it._

Before he realized it, Takano was being walked backwards, to the end of the bridge, back, back to the lush grass edged with autumn brown. Yokozawa’s hands, sure and _strong,_ pushed him down onto it, somehow managing to be steadying even through the muted trembles he could feel racking them.

Their breaths mingled and their mouths crashed together once again, sloppy and violent and wanting only to _drown_ in the battle of tongues and the frantic removal of clothes and the frenzied gripping of hair and the stray, gasping breaths that occasionally escaped.

He was naked in a few short moments, laid _barer,_ with Yokozawa on top of him, eyes wild with crazed grief, fighting to not hurt Takano as he slipped one, two spit-slicked fingers inside him. Takano’s breath hitched on a half-sob at the forgotten _burn_ of the stretch. It was good, _good_ as the pain threatening to rend his chest apart found a voice in the noises he made at the intrusion.

_Too_ soon, and _not soon enough,_ Yokozawa pulled his fingers out, lining himself up and pushing in, Takano’s body screaming deliciously at the _hurt_ of it.

_“Yesssssss…..”_ he hissed in satisfaction at it, and he _didn’t_ know how he looked, but he _did,_ he looked _absolutely fucking crazy,_ keening in pleasure at the pain as another man violated his body for all to see.

That was them, wasn’t it, two _fucking crazy_ people tearing each other apart and _apart_ with force of their anguish, licking each other’s wounds.

His hands tore into the skin of Yokozawa’s back, long scratches oozing blood and blue-black bruises from his teeth on his neck and collarbone as Yokozawa started moving, because he _knew_ what the other man needed right then.

The grey-eyed man said nothing, just drove into him harder, harder, _harder,_ returning the favor with the dark purple blotches marring his friend’s pale skin.

Takano _threw_ his head back in pleasure, hair fanning out over the grass in a disheveled mess as he let moans be _punched_ out of him on every punishing thrust.

Yokozawa buried his head in Takano’s shoulder, the warmth of his tears in juxtaposition to the late-autumn chill in the air, and it was a while before his partner’s pleasure-racked brain realized that the man above him was saying something.

 

“Masamune, _Masamune…”_

Takano just wrapped his arms tighter around Yokozawa in reply, dug his feet into the man’s hard, muscular back, muscle memory canting his hips up to meet him on every thrust, angled perfectly to drive into the spot which wiped all coherent though from his mind. The heady feeling, the overwhelming rush of being so _needed_ heightened his sensitivity to unbelievable levels, so much so that he actually, properly _sobbed_ on a particularly hard thrust. Tears of his own formed in his eyes and mingled with the ink of his best friend’s hair. He _let_ the agony of heartbreak burst forth from his lips, _let_ the tears cascade down his cheeks as he clutched on to Yokozawa, moaned in his ear as if _this_ was the only thing keeping him anchored.

It probably _was,_ at this point.

 

_“Yokozawa,”_ he sobbed, again and again until it was a torrent of crying and his friend’s garbled name, face contorting in that strange antithesis of all-encompassing _anguish_ and thought-extirpating _pleasure._

Yokozawa’s thrusts lost their rhythm, coming erratic and choppy and _deep, just_ how Takano liked. His nails retraced their paths along the back of the man above him as the pair let themselves be swept away in a whirlwind of pleasured sounds and throaty groans of the other’s name.

“Shit, Yokozawa, Yokozawa, _Takafumi,_ I’m going to—!” Takano’s body arched, convulsed, white streams painting both their chests before he sank down, boneless, chest heaving with sobs.

_“Masamune.”_ Yokozawa cried in his ear, voice laced with the same heartbreak that seasoned his own, tears drenching Takano’s shoulder as his hands gripped Takano painfully tight before his body stiffened and something warm filled him up.

They collapsed next to each other, catching their breaths, and somehow, instinctively, their hands found each other and held fast.

 

* * *

 

 

“He’s _dying,”_ Yokozawa said, head in Takano’s lap as the amber-eyed man stroked his hair by the rising twilight. The antithetical calm that came with having sunk as low as they possibly could have pervaded both their psyches. “Cancer. He’s got two months to live and he _didn’t tell me.”_

The fingers stroking through jet-black strands froze as the man sitting groped for words. What could he _say?_ The only thought, echoing in crazy laughter through his head was, _fuck, this guy is_ really _unlucky with love._

And then, _fuck, it’s not like I can talk._

“… _fuck.”_

It was all Takano could muster, thunderstruck as he was. He’d expected a breakup, maybe even a similar situation to his, but _this?_ It didn’t seem possible to him that _Kirishima-san,_ the calm, capable Kirishima-san, could be _dying._

_He’d_ grown so used to having the man’s presence around the company in general, his firm guidance, his light-hearted banter, his encouragement, that the thought of its absence left a strange feeling in even _his_ chest.

Just went to show that Kirishima-san had a way of endearing himself to the people around him, so he didn’t even _want_ to imagine what it was like for Yokozawa, just _watching_ the man he loved waste away slowly.

 

At least he’d had a clean break with Onodera.

 

“He has a _daughter,_ Masamune. His wife’s already passed away. I don’t even know _how_ she’ll deal with it when he tells her. Imagine trying to tell your motherless, ten year-old daughter that her father, who is the person she loves most in this _world,_ is now also dying. She’s already been through this _once,_ and no child deserves even _that._ ”

Takano just resumed the path of his fingers through Yokozawa’s hair. There was nothing he _could_ say.

“This is _horrible,”_ Yokozawasaid, raising his head. “And so, _so_ unfair.”

Takano silently held out his arms. His friend sank into them, his sudden, vehement sobs shaking both of them.

“I _love_ him,” he was barely coherent. “God, I _love_ him _so much._ I should’ve told him, I should’ve told him _so much more often._ It’s _not fair;_ it’s _just not fair._ What will I _do_ without him? What will _Hiyo_ do without him?”

Takano let him get it out, listening patiently to his tirade before chipping in with practicalities.

“I’m _really_ not the one you should be telling this to, you know,” he whispered into inky hair, stroking his back to soothe his vicious outpouring of grief. Yokozawa stiffened at his suggestion.

“I have _no idea_ how I’m ever going to face him again, let alone _tell him this,_ ” he said, making to disentangle himself from his companion. _Belated guilt reflex kicking in, huh._

Takano let him go.

After Yokozawa had put a safe distance between the two of them, he shifted uncomfortably for a beat, not knowing what to say.

 

“...So what about you? You never told me what happened,” he finally filled the silence.

“He’s moving to Switzerland,” the _Emerald_ editor-in-chief replied expressionlessly. “Forever,” he clarified, on seeing his companion’s incredulous expression.

“What the _fuck?”_ he said, scooting forward to place a hand on the amber-eyed man’s arm. “Masamune, _shit.”_

“Apparently his fiancée’s ill, so he’s swooping in, all fucking Superman-ly, to take over the Swiss branch of Onodera Shuppen _and_ look after his ailing betrothed. What a knight in shining armor,” Takano spat out bitterly.

“That bastard…” Yokozawa muttered. “ _Again?”_

His friend let out an acrimonious laugh. “Yes, _again._ That was my first thought, too. At least he gave me fair warning this time.”

 

A beat of silence passed before Takano’s eyes suddenly burned like fire, the glowing embers of resentful _hurt_ in his chest sparking anew as the remembrances replayed like a malicious reel. “I won’t forgive him, Yokozawa. I won’t _ever_ forgive him.”

“As you shouldn’t,” Yokozawa replied, back to his usual brusque pitch.

 

But this time, it was the salesman who kissed the ebony-haired man first under the moonlight that illuminated the trees and rivers into silver and their forms into the ethereal.

 

_Let’s see_ just _how far we can sink, shall we?_

And Takano wrapped his arms around Yokozawa and let his mind go blank.

 

When they pulled away, he stood up.

“Come on,” he started to walk. “I don’t think either of us should be alone tonight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'd really, really appreciate it if you'd tell me what you think of this chapter. This is my favorite chapter, and I really want different opinions and constructive criticism on it. Do you think this could, in actuality, happen? Do you think I got their reactions down right? That kind of stuff. I'LL LOVE YOU FOREVER.


	11. Consensus.

Okay guys. I need your opinion on something. I've been debating it for a while now.  
I've written the next chapter, but... I don't know. The story just seems somehow complete to me. I want the previous one to be the last chapter. It just seems to end there, you know. But what I think may not be correct. What do you guys think? Should I end this here?

OH OH OH AND re-read the last chapter while listening to 'Just Tonight' by The Pretty Reckless. IT IS A SUBLIMINAL EXPERIENCE. I promise you.


	12. Mitigation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS WAS A MONSTER AND IT FUCKED WITH MY HEAD OKAY. But I decided to take y'all's advice and continue this, so heeeeere we are!

 

It had been a week.

It had been a  _week_ , and Yokozawa  _still_  hadn't talked to Kirishima.  _Still_  hadn't acted on the note Masamune had left him before he'd gone home, quietly, the morning after,  _talk to him._

The fact had made him even brusquer and snappier at work than usual, sending his subordinates scattering the second his voice boomed out over the Sales floor. He liked to tell himself it wasn't affecting his work,  _not at all,_  but he even found it difficult to paste on a manufactured smile as he met store managers on his rounds.

He realized this had to stop when he found himself ferociously berating Henmi for  _dropping a sheaf of papers._

_He_ had _to talk to Kirishima._

This exact sequence of events found him retracing the familiar path to the Kirishima residence after he got off work that day, holding a bag of some  _omiyage_  he'd blindly picked up at the  _conbini_.

The overwhelming  _guilt_  he felt made his stomach turn, his palms sweat in nervousness. No matter what Kirishima had done, Yokozawa had had  _no right whatsoever_  to react the way he did. He owed his…  _ex, now?_  lover, at the very least, an apology. And the man would then be perfectly within his rights to kick Yokozawa out and never want to see his face again after he told hi the reason.

_Why did he always fuck things up for himself?_

 

* * *

 

A haunting sense of  _déjà vu_  swept over him as he stared at the nameplate on the door and rang the bell, hands shaking. They'd been there before, early on in their relationship, Yokozawa crawling back here with his tail between his legs to apologize after realizing how  _colossally stupid_  his actions had been.

He felt a wave of nausea rising in his throat. That time had led to the  _best_  thing that had ever happened to him.  _And now?_  Now he didn't even know what he hoped to accomplish with this… this  _outreach_. Desperately snatch as much time with him Kirishima as he could, stow every single precious moment away in memory, before…?

And how could he even hope for  _that_  much after what he'd done? How could he ever even look Kirishima in the eyes after going and doing the very thing he'd repeatedly assured the older man he didn't have to worry about?

_How could Yokozawa mar his few remaining weeks here with that knowledge?_

_Fuck_ , this whole situation was a study in contradictions, but Yokozawa knew that he'd never be able to live with himself if he didn't come clean to the other man. And fuck, he knew that was selfish, but he would  _not_  make the mistake of trying to protect others without their consent again.

He, at the very least, owed Kirishima the truth.

_They were in this together, after all._

The door clicked open, Hiyori's familiar figure appearing behind it.

"Ah, Hiyo," he said, on reflex, handing her the bag was holding. "Here."

"Thank you," she said, taking it with none of her customary cheer. In fact, she looked on the verge of tears as she made a beeline for the living room after greeting him with a soft, "It's nice to see you, oniichan."

When Yokozawa followed her inside, he saw her sitting by her father's side, clinging to his hand as he reclined on the couch.

_So he'd told her._

Kirishima's eyes fluttered open at his entry. His face was haggard and he seemed thinner, the younger man noted with worry, but his eyes still lit up in that old way when he saw Yokozawa.

"Kirishima-san, I…" he began, not sure was he was going to say, but his partner cut him off.

_"Just come here."_

He hesitated for a moment before walking over to the older man, a little dismayed that he couldn't make his confession straightaway, with Hiyo in the room. Waiting only ever made things worse.

"…...!"

He grunted as Kirishima pulled him down into a hug as soon as he was within arm's length, still surprisingly strong. On instinct, one of his arms braced itself against the taller man, the other coming to wrap around Hiyo until they were all wrapped together in some semblance of a  _family hug._

Yokozawa's chest  _burned_  as he buried his face into Kirishima's shoulder, Hiyori's hair, the scent of cherry blossoms invading his senses. He let out a sobbing gasp. It hurt  _so much_ , coming home.

"Don't  _listen_  to me all the time, geez," Kirishima whispered into his ear after a few drawn-out, shuddering, flute-fragile moments. "Feels strange."

"M-make up your mind on what you want!" Yokozawa retorted.  _So much shit,_  and he still really didn't understand the guy at  _all._

They stayed like that for a while, each of them much loath to let go.

Finally, Hiyori broke away, perhaps sensing some of the disquiet that still lingered, with her usual perceptiveness. It was honestly  _embarrassing_  how she, in her ten years, had picked up more sensitivity and tact than Yokozawa had in twenty-eight.

"Right, I'm going to Yuki-chan's for a bit, I promised her we'd work on our science project together," she said, making for the gate. "Papa, oniichan, make nice!"

Her eyes were suspiciously moist as she disappeared out the door.

Yokozawa suddenly felt adrenaline rush through his body, making it tingle.

_Now or never._

"…I slept with Masamune," he blurted out before he could lose his nerve, bowing his head before Kirishima. His heart was pounding painfully in his chest, his fingers were trembling. All he wanted to do now that he'd spit out those words was remove himself from that house. He was so ashamed of himself that he couldn't bear to be in Kirishima's presence a  _second_  longer, not face, any more, the man he'd  _betrayed_. "I'm sorry."

The apology sounded pitiful to his own ears. He knew there were no excuses he could make,  _nothing_  that could justify his actions. He stood silently, head lowered, waiting for Kirishima's inevitable rage, pain, sadness to descend upon him.

But there was only dead silence.

Then,  _"I understand."_

Kirishima's soft voice was barely audible, but Yokozawa heard it loud and clear.

When he looked up in surprise, the older man had averted his gaze.

"I said  _I understand,_ " Kirishima repeated. This wasn't anything Yokozawa had prepared himself for. Rather than any or disgusted, the man sounded  _resigned_. "It would be unfair to tie you down to someone like me. So. I'm letting you go, Yokozawa. Go live your life for the both of us."

"Wh- _wait a minute—,"_

"I just want you to be  _happy_ , Yokozawa. Even if it's with Takano." Kirishima still faced determinedly away from him. "Now  _leave_ , before I lose my resolve."

His calm exterior cracked towards the end of his exhortation, belied by the tremble in his voice.

"What- the  _hell_  are you on about?" the thunderstruck Yokozawa demanded of him. "I'm not in love with Masamune!"

Kirishima let out a wry chuckle. "You don't have to spare my feelings, you know."

"I'm not! Masamune—," he stopped, before a deep flush crept up his cheeks. " _You're_  the one I love, godammit!"

Kirishima looked stunned, and Yokozawa soldiered on, tamping down on the  _shame_  he felt at acting like a high-school girl confessing to her  _senpai_.

"That day… I don't know what I was thinking. I  _wasn't_  thinking. Masamune and I… just met on coincidence. He was in a really- really bad place too, so it was more comforting each other than anything else. I know he regrets it as much as I do."

Kirishima opened his mouth to speak, but Yokozawa didn't give him the opportunity, running a hand through his hair.

"I realize I'm not in a position to make excuses, and that's exactly what I'm doing. But… just,  _fuck_ , I'm sorry." He clenched his eyes shut for a moment, fighting the burning urge to reach out for Kirishima. "And I want  _you_ , if you'll still have me."

Kirishima was silent for a long while. When Yokozawa chanced a glance up at him, he was biting his lip. His expression was somehow  _painful_  to look at.

"All the same," he finally said. "I've had a week to think about this, Yokozawa, and I can't tie you down. Not like this."

Yokozawa, on an even shorter fuse than usual, felt the end of his patience quickly approaching.

"I'm  _breaking up with you,_ " Kirishima choked out, turning his face away, and the younger man could  _see_  him clenching his eyes shut.

And that was about when his patience ran out.

"Don't  _fucking_  pull that martyr shit on me," he snarled, striding towards his lover. "If you can't look at me after what I've done, be a fucking man and  _tell me so._ "

"And I've  _told_  you it's not that," Kirishima spat back with the same vehemence. "I'm fucking  _dying_  in two months, Yokozawa. Do you  _really_  think I've got time to  _let_  myself care about this bullshit?  _I love you,_  you asshole, and right now, I don't care if you've slept with the entirety of Hyogo prefecture,  _I still want you."_

"Then what's the—,"

"The  _problem_  is the same reason I'm not mad at you. I'm  _fucking dying._  And I can't drag you down with me. I've been there, trust me, and it's one hell of a shit-trip."

"Do you really think—," Yokozawa began, then realized the futility of words. "Oh, just  _shut up."_

His exasperation, his  _desperation_ , the fact that, now, they couldn't  _afford_  to waste time dancing around each other made him bolder than he'd ever imagined himself capable of being. His hands, that had been gripping Kirishima's lapels, migrated to his face as he pulled him in for a bruising kiss.

And it was _such fucking irony,_  that it was  _Kirishima's_  hands that reached up to ineffectually push him away, that it was  _Yokozawa_  who saw through the faux-resistance easy as anything.

_This wasn't how it was meant to be._

_But there was no other way it could have happened._

And that just cemented Yokozawa's faith that concepts like Faith and Destiny propounded utter  _bullshit_.

Because there was no  _meant to be_ , no rosy fantasies of how it  _could_  have played out, because no mirage was perfect. Things just turned out a certain way, and that was as far as Destiny went.

He let Kirishima go after he'd embossed the message onto his lips to his satisfaction.

"You  _idiot_ ," he growled at the uncharacteristically wide-eyed, breathless Kirishima in front of him. "You  _fucking bastard._  I'm here because I  _want_  to be, okay? There isn't a person I want except for you. If you think I'm staying out of  _pity_  or some bullshit, that's a crock of shit."

And just because they didn't have the  _time_  to get to the point where such feelings came through to the other unspoken, "And you don't need to feel shitty about tying me down, either. Don't you think that I  _knew_ , going into this, that I wouldn't come out unscathed? Heck, don't you think we're  _both_  in too deep now to not get hurt, anyway? I couldn't let go if I wanted to. You couldn't, either, could you?"

Kirishima was staring at him, never having heard Yokozawa talk so openly, so at length. "Because that's what a relationship is about. I'm going to get hurt, either way. So are you. But if I have to get hurt, I want to do it while staying by your side. Besides," what was he  _doing_ , tracing his fingers over Kirishima's pink-dusted cheeks? "I've got you tied down, too."

God, this seemed to be a night full of liberties he had  _no right_  taking, Yokozawa leaned his head on Kirishima's shoulder.

"Just," he whispered,  _hating_  how vulnerable his voice sounded. "I couldn't tie you down strongly enough."

Kirishima's calm veneer completely shattered at this, his arms, as if of their own accord, coming up to wrap around Yokozawa like he'd  _never let him go._

"Shhh. just… shhhhhhh," he murmured, the glaze on his voice melting, dissolving in the warmth of suppressed emotion, giving Yokozawa, for once, a clear window into his soul.

He finally understood what Kirishima had meant when he'd said  _I see something of myself in you._

" _Takafumi_ ," Kirishima whispered in his ear, and his  _voice_  set every nerve in Yokozawa's body ablaze.  _"Make love to me."_

They kissed slow and deep and  _hot_  all the way to the bedroom.

 

* * *

 

"Shit,  _shit_ ," Yokozawa let out his voice, not holding back for once as he felt Kirishima digging sharp nails into his back. The older man matched his cries as he hooked his ankles behind his lover's back, forcing him in deeper, urging him to go  _faster_.

Yokozawa ignored him, maintaining his slow, deep rhythm as he snapped his hips, hands tracing every contour of Kirishima's body as if trying to commit it to memory. Kirishima whined in frustration, canting his hips up.

"You said you wanted me to  _make love_  to you, so that's  _exactly_  what I'm doing," Yokozawa said, voice strained from exertion.

"A little speed wouldn't-  _ah!- hurt—nghh!"_  Kirishima said, voice hitching on a keen as Yokozawa hit a good spot. "I'm not going to  _break_."

But that was  _exactly_  what Yokozawa was afraid would happen, that Kirishima would  _break_  if he went too fast. All the tenderness he hid behind a curt façade forced itself out through the gentleness of his kisses, the slow, intense deliberation of his thrusts.

Just once, just  _this once_ , he wanted to treat his lover like he was  _precious_.

Because he wanted to cram Kirishima's head and heart and soul full of all the confusing, frustrating emotion the younger man felt when he so much as  _looked_  at him, tell him everything that had been left unsaid in the little time they had left.

So he shut Kirishima's smart mouth, which had been spouting something along the lines of  _I swear to god, if you don't go faster, I will flip us over and do you instead,_  with a kiss, poured into it everything he felt, things he wanted to say and things he couldn't possibly vocalize. And  _maybe_ , just maybe Kirishima understood, because he responded with equal fervor as their tongues messily twined, making everything wet and slick and  _good_ , as Yokozawa, spurred on by this, shifted himself up the bed and began to thrust in earnest.

And this was so  _strange_ , so similar to Masamune, and yet so  _different_  because Kirishima, Kirishima wasn't throwing his head back trying to  _forget_.

Kirishima was tilting his head forward, drawing Yokozawa to him, lust-hazed eyes meeting and trying to  _remember_.

And Yokozawa wasn't  _Masamune_ , couldn't dress up words nice and pretty and sensitive and tell people what they needed to hear, but he brought his mouth to his partner's ear and whispered what he hoped summed up what he'd been struggling with ever since he'd stepped foot in the house.

_"Zen."_

Kirishima froze, breath catching on a moan, before he tightened  _excruciatingly_  around Yokozawa, who felt his release draw up embarrassingly close.

" _Again_ ," he demanded, hands coming up to the younger man's hair and tightening dangerously. "Again,  _Takafumi_."

" _Zen_ ," he obliged him, starting to thrust again, no faster than before, but even deeper, a  _raw_  edge to it that made their blood rush in their veins. "Zen,  _I'm sorry."_

They both knew he wasn't just apologizing for Masamune.

He kept up this torturous, deliberate pace until they were both panting, desperate gasps and moans intermingling, the crimson flush spreading all over their bodies until neither could tell which was which. Until they were both hopelessly, inextricably, fucking symbolically intertwined.

"Ahh,  _ahhh_ ,  _fuck, nghh!"_  Kirishima's voice was getting louder and louder on each pass, and Yokozawa wanted to quiet him down but he  _didn't_ , because the twin sounds tearing their way past his own throat just lent them perfect harmony.

"Zen,  _Zen_ , I'm…  _so fucking sorry_ … I'm sorry,  _f_ _orgive me,_ " Yokozawa's mind was going, now, he barely knew what he was saying, so overwhelmed was he by the perfect scorch that threatened to raze the two to the ground. His filter was defunct, had been for quite a while, and the words secreted away in the darkest depths of his heart simply took flight through his lips.  _"I love you."_

" _Takafumi_ ," Kirishima took Yokozawa's face in his hands, kissed his lips deep and slow and in seamless synchrony with their lovemaking. "Don't.  _Don't apologize any more._ "

 

* * *

 

Afterwards, they lay together, a sheet draped over them, Kirishima's arm around Yokozawa's waist. He'd only stiffened a  _little_  bit when the taller man had put it there.

"You  _really_  don't have to, you know," Kirishima said softly. "You can still walk away and not have to watch me- watch me—" he broke off.

Yokozawa slapped his hand away from himself.

"If you seriously think I'm going to do that, then you're an even bigger idiot than you were for thinking I was in love with Masamune," he snapped. Had  _everything_  he'd said, that had cost him such acute  _discomfort_  to say, gone over his lover's head?

"You can't blame me for thinking that you were still, ultimately, in love with him," Kirishima responded despondently. " _He_  was the one you sought out after… you found out. And, this seems really petty now, but… you didn't tell me you were on the  _Diamond Heart_  board together. I  _know_  it's not like that, but I just- I couldn't help thinking that maybe you didn't trust me enough."

"Wh- I didn't  _seek him out,"_  Yokozawa muttered, glad the older man couldn't see his face. It'd take him a long,  _long_  time to entirely forgive himself for what he'd done. "I  _told_  you. We happened to come to the same place, that's all. He… Onodera's moving to Switzerland. For good."

Kirishima didn't reply. Then, suddenly, "What's your favorite color?"

"And you're right, it wasn't  _at all_  because I didn't trust you or whatever. It's just that it never came up, and, as you can imagine, I wasn't exactly chomping at the bit to talk to you about him," Yokozawa continued, as if the guy hadn't spoken. It seemed like the older man's penchant for teasing him hadn't disappeared even after recent events. Who asked another  _fully grown man_  that?

There was only silence from behind him. Yokozawa could picture Kirishima wearing his now-familiar pained expression that the younger man so hated.

"…Ugh," he groaned in exasperation, "We're not in  _high school,_  dammit. Why do you want to know my favorite  _color_ , of all things?"

"Just—," Kirishima said, and Yokozawa wished that he could see his expression, because the man sounded almost  _shy_ , "It's the kind of thing Takano would have known…"

"No he—," the younger man started to refute him, then realized that on every birthday, New Year's, whatever, he unfailingly received a gift from Masamune. It was always a colored item, and it was always of a particular color.

"….It's dark blue,"

And Kirishima sounded so  _happy_ , as he snaked an arm back around Yokozawa, as he responded with  _mine's turquoise,_  that if  _this_  was what playing along with his lover's caprices brought him, he didn't mind it at all.

"...Well?" Kirishima finally said, expectantly.

"Well, what?"

"It's your turn. Go on, ask me something."

"Alright, then, what's your favorite…food?"

"Oh,  _anything_  my darling makes for me~" Kirishima said lightly.

Yokozawa was  _pretty sure_  his face would be burned to a crisp by the time this was over from the sheer heat of his blush.

"I thought this was an opportunity to actually get to know each other, and  _not_  flirt shamelessly!" he barked at Kirishima, laying a warning hand on the arm he had around his middle.

Kirishima didn't say anything, and although they so often missed each other completely, seemed to be on totally different wavelengths, had a valley of a communication gap between them, this time, he  _understood_.

_They won't have any more opportunities._

"I'm partial to a homemade  _omurice_  myself," Yokozawa hastily said to dispel the sudden, heavy silence.

"So I should brush up on my cooking skills?" the taller man asked, a smile in his voice, "Surprise you in the morning in nothing but an apron~"

_"I'll take care of it, just keep your hands to yourself,_ " the ink-haired man immediately shut him down, shuddering at the mental image. He was  _almost certain_  the guy was kidding, but with someone like Kirishima, you could never tell.

Kirishima laughed in that youthful,  _happy_  way he did after having successfully gotten a rise out of Yokozawa, and… maybe Yokozawa didn't mind being teased so much, either, if it got a reaction like  _that_.

_And_ , the grey-eyed man was just beginning to realize, _he'd put up with just about anything to make Kirishima happy._

"Alright, alright, I'm only kidding," Kirishima laughingly said, and, after a beat,

"Favorite type of music?"

"When I get the time to listen t it, mostly classical."

"Are you kidding?  _Boring_ ~ I like rock."

_"Why am I not surprised?_  Uh… favorite book?"

"I may not look it, but I'm a huge fan of classical literature. So, anything by Matsuo Bashou, really."

"Never pegged you as the type to actually read something worthwhile."

"Hey, I'll have you know that I graduated a the top of my classical literature class! Let's hear yours,  _Yokozawa-senpai."_

_"Gross._  And my favorites keep changing, but right now it is  _The Box That Houses The Moon,_  by Usami-sensei."

"Ooh, I like that one too. Hmmm… do you like travelling? If so, where do you want to visit?"

"I've always wanted to travel. That's why I chose a job that wouldn't confine me behind a desk. One place I've always wanted to go is Europe. It's just that I've heard it described so often in books that I kind of want to see it with my own eyes."

"…I wanted to go around the world, too, you know," Kirishima's voice sounded suddenly small and broken. "I had this crazy dream," a bitter laugh, "that you and I would grow old together, and when we were done with all of this- our jobs, raising Hiyo, -that I'd take you around the  _world_."

"This is  _enough_ ," Yokozawa found himself saying before he could clamp down on the words and second-guess them within an inch of their lives. "Of course- of  _course_  I'd have liked to have…  _that_  with you. But we  _can't_. So I'm saying that this, here, what we  _have_ , I don't need any more than just this. So don't go getting all soft on me."

_"Yokozawa—,"_  Kirishima seemed lost for words, and Yokozawa was thankful for the quiet that gave his cheeks time to cool down.

"Take Hiyo there someday," he finally said, voice so soft and faraway that it struck somewhere deep within his lover, who could just nod mutely.

They just stayed like that for a long time, their hearts beating in tandem, the gossamer threads of the queer ache that interlinked them tugging just  _so_  at their chests, making them reluctant to move.

Finally, Yokozawa braced himself and ventured, broaching something that had taken a hold on his mind ever since Kirishima had brought it up.

"We have to tell your parents," he said, turning around to face the older man.

"They know," and there was that aggrieved look again.

"No- not about  _that_ , idiot. About  _us_ ," he said, motioning between them. "If I am to… take care of Hiyo."

"…Yeah. Yeah, I suppose we must," Kirishima said, blankly.

It had often occurred to Yokozawa just how  _odd_  it looked to have an unmarried man, who could boast of being nothing more than a workplace acquaintance, to be traipsing around with a single father and his daughter. But he'd never before considered that, without Kirishima in the picture, he would have no pretext whatsoever on which to sustain his relationship with Hiyori without coming off as a stalker or other unsavory sundries.

The thought  _broke_  something inside him, a geyser of frustration gushing forth from beneath it.

"God, this is  _bullshit_. The fact that we can't- we can't  _ever_  –I can't do  _shit_  for Hiyo, or… _anything_ , ngh—," the broken fragments of ineloquent speech were the best voice Yokozawa could give to the tumult of feelings that had suddenly inundated him.

His lover took an almost painfully tight hold of his hand.

"It's so fucking  _unfair_ ," he echoed Yokozawa's words from a week ago. "You know that if there was any way, _any way_  I could… leave Hiyo in your care, that I could give you something— something more than  _this_  —fuck,  _fuck_."

He left the younger man's hand to scrub his own over his face, seeming overwhelmed by the rancorous, myriad emotions that had to be roiling inside him, grief, pain, fear, frustration- a perfect mirror for Yokozawa's own. And the salesman had never felt  _fettered_  before,  _suffocated_  from having to hide their relationship, belonging to the school of thought that believed social norms were integral for a certain decorum, but now?

_Now_ , he could  _scream_.

Now, the whole concept on  _decorum_  seemed ludicrous. What was  _decorum_  when the love of his fucking life was  _dying_ , and they couldn't even give a  _name_  to what they had? Couldn't have some concrete proof of what they'd had, couldn't say  _he was my husband?_  Would he not qualify as deserving of understanding, heck, of even  _riding in the ambulance beside Kirishima,_  of even seeing the girl who was, effectively, his own  _daughter_ without it being misconstrued, simply because a rule of law and a society bound by it dismissed their relationship?

He was, suddenly, intensely afraid of the company memorial he'd be obligated to attend. He was afraid of the utter devastation, the  _anger_  that would fill him when he saw no more than passing acquaintances make tearful addresses like they had  _known_  Kirishima Zen, the girls who had regarded him as no more than fresh meat worthy of pursuit speak like he had been their first love. He was even afraid of the silent, sympathetic look he knew Masamune would shoot him.

But most of all, he was afraid of what he would say if he was called upon to speak, as  _Kirishima-san's close friend._

Perhaps Kirishima had understood something of what Yokozawa was thinking as it played out on his face, because he pulled him even closer.

"Tomorrow we tell my parents," he muttered like a reassurance. " _Tomorrow we tell my parents."_

 

* * *

 

 

Yokozawa shifted his weight uncomfortably as he sat on the couch beside Kirishima, fielding the expectant gazes of his partner's parents. The tea, snacks and pleasantries had been done with, and Yokozawa knew that the pair of them wanted to know why their son had called this unlikely gathering out of the blue.

Kirishima took a deep breath, looking at Yokozawa as if to say  _"Ready?"_

The younger man felt like he was going to splatter all of the older Kirishimas' nice cooking over their nice carpet, but he nodded.

"Mom, Dad, I-  _we_  have to tell you something." Kirishima began, and Yokozawa felt his nervousness spike to dizzying levels.

"I," abruptly, the brown-eyed man grabbed his lover's hand and held it forward so that his parents could see. "Am in love with this man."

There was an excruciating moment of silence.

"Well, I figured something like his was up," Mrs. Kirishima was the first to recover from her shock. "Hiyo never stops talking about  _Yokozawa-oniichan,_  after all."

"Well, of course we're a  _little_  surprised," she added delicately. "Seeing as Zen had a wife before."

"In light of recent events, we thought it'd be best to tell you. I mean, we obviously can't get married or anything, but I'd like Yokozawa to be able to continue seeing Hiyori even after, you know…"

Here Kirishima trailed off, and his mother silently nodded, her eyes filling with tears.

Even though Yokozawa was considerably relieved by Mrs. Kirishima's acceptance, he still looked anxiously at her husband, awaiting his reaction.

"Well," Mr. Kirishima said gruffly, "at least Hiyori won't have to experience the void of a father as well."

"Please look favorably upon me," the words left Yokozawa in a rush as he bowed his head, the motion barely concealing his wide smile of relief.

And it was such a bittersweet moment, the four of them sitting around the older Kirishimas' little coffee table, Mrs. Kirishima reaching out to take Yokozawa's hand with a barely audible whisper of  _my son_ , Mr. Kirishima patting his shoulder, but it somewhat assuaged the sting of things that could never be.

Because there, amidst the smoking wreck of unspoken hopes and dreams and  _life_ , Yokozawa felt  _accepted_.

 

 


	13. Quietus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO YOU WANNA READ THIS CHAPTER? Turn around, go and search up 'Terrible Things' by Mayday Parade and LISTEN TO IT while reading this. I swear. Like this chapter isn't half as good without the mood music.
> 
> Also, sefkfehfehsil this story is coming to an END and a part of me is like "FINALLY," and another is like "Huuuuuuuuh? Didn't I start this just the other day?"   
> Suffice to say, it's a strange feeling. I almost feel... lost? Because I've been driven by this for the past month and now there's only an itsy-bitsy chapter and an epilogue left.  
> Oh well. I will definitely not stop writing after this, you've far from seen the last of me yet! You know, I think I'll be doing an 'Author Q and A' or something on my tumblr, which is miteranyx.tumblr.com. Hit me up with prompts, any points of clarification you want on the story, anything you want to discuss about any topic under the sun.   
> Enjoy this little feeling slayer~

Kirishima hadn’t wanted to count.

He hadn’twanted to know _thirty-seven_ when he found himself unable to walk around for extended periods of time.

He hadn’t wanted to know _twenty-four_ when he took to editing his manuscripts from his living room sofa rather than going to the office, phone ringing off the hook, Hiyo rushing to bring him this or that as soon as she was home.

And he didn’t want to know _sixteen,_ today,as he silently, ponderously made his way to Marukawa Shoten for the final time.

He hadn’t wanted to cross off days on his mental calendar until his life would become little more than an ephemeral entity, but, somehow, he’d ended up doing so anyway.

 

* * *

 

He _already_ felt like a ghost the moment those achingly familiar sliding-glass doors opened to accommodate him, like a time-lapsed spirit gathering memorable figments from his past. The letter he held felt peculiarly heavy in his hand as be boarded the lift, nostalgia, _wasn’t it too early for this bullshit?,_ hitting him like a punch to the gut when he stepped out onto the fourth floor. _His_ floor.

The shonen manga department was plunged into dead silence as soon as he entered the workspace. His subordinates all knew, of course, the reason for his absence from the office, and had almost certainly guessed the reason for him being here today. What was he supposed to _say_ to alleviate the sudden oppressive gloom that had spread out from his heart and manifested itself in a thundercloud over the room?

He settled for nodding briefly to them as he strode past the shonen department and over to the Director’s office.

“Isaka-san,” he said, knocking on the door and entering. The Company Director’s disinterest demeanor instantly sobered down when he recognized his visitor.

“Kirishima,” he said, blinking for a beat before motioning to the chair in front of his desk. “Come, have a seat.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Kirishima said, putting the envelope that had been burning a hole through his hand down in front of the seated man. “I had just come to give you this.”

“Your resignation, I presume?”

“Yeah. Thank you for taking care of me,” Kirishima bowed his head, then abruptly turned around, feeling like he couldn’t stay there an instant longer. “I’ll be taking my leave now.”

“Wait,” Isaka said, getting out of his chair. Kirishima turned around, only to find a hand descending upon his shoulder, squeezing momentarily. “You were the best goddamn editor _Japun_ ever had.”

“Thank you,” was all Kirishima could muster, throat suddenly choking up.

He hurriedly left the office, making straight for the elevator when he suddenly realized that none of his… _former_ subordinates were sitting in their cubicles. They had all come to stand on the sides of Kirishima’s pathway, with Hitomi and Kasagawa standing right at the end of the workstation. As he passed them, each and every one handed over a token, a _remembrance._

When he finally reached the end of the excruciatingly long corridor, he didn’t know how he _felt._

He didn’t know how he feltwhen Hitomi, with tears openly streaming down his cheeks, and Kasagawa, with the mask of stoicism icing over his features, handed him a shonen department group photograph, Kirishima as the editor-in-chief grinning happily in the middle.

 

_You will be missed, Kirishima-san._

And he didn’t know how he felt when, the news of his arrival and resignation having spread like wildfire, the halls he walked through on his way out fell instantly subdued, _deathly_ quiet. Every inch along the walls was occupied by an employee who stood in a final, wordless tribute.

And maybe he’d have felt _touched,_ had there been anything left inside him to feel _._

It was honestly like the winter that was definitely in the air now had numbed all his senses, his _feelings_ with its icy fingers as he stepped out into the cool rush of the wind, of the revitalizing air that nonetheless burned his lungs. _Everything_ burned his lungs, and he just wished he could feel something besides their struggle for survival and _void._

He could barely lug the gifts and cards that had been heaped upon him to his waiting car, leaden tears weighing them down. _What do you even_ say _on a card addressed to a dying person? See you on the other side?_

 

The quiet rumbling of the car calmed the smarting in his chest that had nothing to do with radiation, that had started right when he had pushed that letter across Isaka’s table, and his dreams withal. He drove in silence for a while, following a familiar route, savoring the quiet unpunctuated by radio music.

 

* * *

 

The car came to a standstill in front of the forest as Kirishima pulled the key out of the ignition. He knew easier ways to get where he wanted, but this traversal had seemed to him like a pilgrimage he must make.

He took a moment to revel in the crunch of the long-since shed autumn leaves underfoot, hands in his pockets. It he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that this was normal _,_ that he was simply there for another visit and he’d go back home and everything would be _just fine._

But he _wouldn’t._ He had come here in the search of some counsel, and counsel wasn’t an escapist desert.

 

 _It seems like you drew me to you, again, Sakura, you always had a penchant for that,_ he followed the path carved out by years of use through the trees, _and I don’t men just to this place._

“Look at me,” he laughed bitterly, reaching the old, thick sakura tree right in the middle of the wood, tracing his fingers over the rough letters carved into his bark, Z+S. “Isn’t this called Fate, Sakura?”

A deluge of memories engulfed him as his fingers touched the letters, of sunlit days and secret meetings and young, foolish love. Because those childish alphabets had been etched, not into old wood, but into Time itself.

But Time is a universal constant, which meant that those stolen moments weren’t Kirishima’s alone. Not any more. They were all of young love’s, every one youthful and reckless and _happy,_ who ever had been in love or was in love or hoped to be in love.

What _were_ his, though, were tactless, stuttering, red-faced confessions and a quick temper and eyes that were at once the gray of a tempest and the blue of the sky.

He finally understood, in all it’s entirety, what Yokozawa had meant when he’d said that it hadn’t ever been a choice between Sakura and him.

Rather, there had been only one choice, and that had already been made for him.

Because, with every stinging, itching breath, with every scrape of his hand over rough bark, every touch, every brush of skin against Yokozawa’s, with all those little things that had sustained him without him noticing, his conviction had grown stronger and stronger.

 

_He wanted to live._

_He wanted to live and spend the rest of his life with Yokozawa._

_And he wanted to live and cherish Sakura’s memory forever._

The brown-eyed man turned away from the tree, and, burying his hands in his pockets, set off on the path again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Kirishima knew this like clockwork.

Every year, he trudged out of the woods, made his way to the little clearing just alongside it, and walked over to the third plot from the wicker fence that ran all around the graveyard there, bearing the white, wooden nameplate of _Kirishima._

And every year, he placed a single, white chrysanthemum at Sakura Kirishima’s marker.

But this was the first time he turned around at a sound behind him to find Yokozawa standing behind him, posture awkward but head sincerely bowed in prayer.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_“Hey, Yokozawa, remember that time I gave you my key for the first time?”_

_“What about it?”_

_“Do you remember the… proposal I made along with it?”_

_“…………….”_

_“What if I were to ask you again?”_

 

* * *

“It’s gone,” Kirishima said, dully, whether to Sakura, Yokozawa, or himself, he wasn’t quite sure. “Everything I loved doing, my _passion,_ this has taken even my dreams from me.”

 

There was silence in the open clearing, so tangible that it seemed to push the heavens themselves to respond. Big, white flakes fell from the sky, softening the harsh contours of the land into downy white.

“Will it stop at _nothing?_ Must it reduce me to this— this _shadow_ before it takes me?” The cavernous, aching emptiness that had opened up inside his chest found a voice in the sudden vehemence that burst forth from Kirishima.

 

The shock seemed to shake Yokozawa out of their shared reverie.

 

 _“Yes,”_ he said, abruptly, blushing to the tips of his ears and avoiding Kirishima’s gaze before seeming to compose himself and catch it again. “Your proposal. I accept it.”

 

And this was the _first_ time Yokozawa had looked at him like this, straight in the eye with such intensity as he reached out a hand for the taller man to take.

Kirishima walked to where his lover was, almost in a daze, hyperaware of each shift of emotion in the younger man’s eyes, every move he made, as well as of the small, nondescript box that currently resided in his jacket pocket.

 

“I, Yokozawa Takafumi, take you to be my husband,” the grey-eyed man began, blush still fevering his cheeks, but blazing eyes focused unwaveringly on Kirishima as he spoke.

“I, Kirishima Zen, take you to be my husband,” the older man echoed, and, for _once_ in his life, he knew that his own color was rivaling the younger man’s.

“To have and to hold, from this day forward.”

“In good times, and in bad.”

“In sickness, and in health.”

As the words left Yokozawa’s mouth, his face contorted in pain as he cupped Kirishima’s face in his hands.

“For richer or poorer,” Kirishima brushed away a snowflake that had alighted on Yokozawa’s cheek, voice tender, comforting as he covered the shorter man’s hands with his own.

“To love, and to cherish.”

“Until death do us part,” Kirishima whispered, a tear trailing its way down over his cheek, over both their hands.

 

“I will love and honor you all the days of my life,” they said together, voices mingling, and in that moment, Kirishima knew that this unseen, unrecognized union, had become Time’s own indelible secret.

And then, so softly, tenderly, it _hurt,_ their lips came together to build a slow, sweet kiss, cemented in that little forgotten wood as the snowflakes, an untainted white, drifted down, as the cemetery around them became a shimmering carpet of white.

It might be short-lived, and it might be ill-fated, but even the snow gathering around them couldn’t hold a candle to the purity of what they had.

 

After a long, long moment, when they finally, quietly, pulled away, Kirishima took out the box from his pocket, opening it to reveal a simple platinum band. Yokozawa did the same, and they watched the scant sunlight glint of the gold in his hand.

And it was almost an ethereal moment, so similar to the one eleven years ago and yet, utterly different, as Yokozawa took his hand, and slipped the ring on, as he did the same, both of them feeling the suppressed trembling of the other’s.

It was so _strange,_ having that weight on his ring finger again, having that weight _entail_ something again. From Yokozawa’s strange, almost pained expression, Kirishima knew he felt the same way.

Interlinking their fingers, a thrill running through him at the feeling of their rings clinking against each other, Kirishima turned the two of them around.

“Sakura,” he said, holding up their hands. “This is Yokozawa, my husband. Yokozawa, this is Sakura, my wife.”

And it might be morbid, exchanging marriage vows in front of his wife’s grave, his… _husband,_ now, bowing to her marker, with a fervent _please look favorably upon me,_ but Kirishima was convinced that there was _no other way,_ without her spirit watching over them, that it could have been done.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

When he had twelve days left, Kirishima, with unsteady hands, called his lawyer. He took some comfort as Yokozawa signed for legal guardianship of Hiyori.

 _At least this much, he could give him,_ especially since the younger man had vehemently refused to accept any money Kirishima had wanted to leave him, snapping out a terse, “If you’re rich enough to be doling out money left, right and center, maybe you should focus on the higher education of your child!”

After a long debate, they had finally compromised of Yokozawa remaining in-charge of the money until Hiyo came of age.

 

Their bickering over it had sounded so _normal,_ that Kirishima had broken out into an involuntary smile.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When he had eight days left, Yokozawa tried to literally _drag_ him into admitting himself to the hospital after he’d begun coughing copious amounts of blood, but Kirishima remained adamant. He would _not_ prolong his suffering for a few more days, would _not_ put all three of them through that for nothing.

So at home he stayed, and Hiyo took a break from school to stay with him. It would be madness to send her there in such a state as she was in. Kirishima scarcely knew which of them felt worse- him, who had to look at the child inside her fade away, or her, who was watching her father _die,_ slowly and painfully. The horrible poesy of it was that they both _knew_ that they were the cause of the other’s anguish, but couldn’t do a _thing_ to alleviate it.

So Kirishima clung to her as often as she clung to him, somehow, irrationally hoping she’d get enough while he was still _there._

Despite Kirishima’s protests, Yokozawa took a week of paid vacation as well, fiery eyes of grey-blue saying _shame on me if I can’t stay by your side these few days_ and brooking no argument.

Neither of them had taken their rings off.

 

* * *

 

 

When he had two days left, the three of them curled up together in bed that night, as they were wont to do most nights now, and acted like _nothing_ was wrong.

“So then Kagayama found out that William was actually Sairi in disguise, but it turns out that Sairi is working for Kimihiro and has been deceiving him all along. But check _this_ out, after she’s found out, Sai-chan kills _both_ Kaga and Hiro, and takes over all of Drogoren!”

“H-hey, that’s just _totally_ impossible! Do you realize how many guards Kimihiro would have—”

“Awwwww, come on, oniichan~ Play along~ Look, I’ll go next. Okay, so Sai-chan might be queen, but what she doesn’t realize is that Iori is a distant descendant of Kaga-kun’s and has vowed to take revenge!”

“And then everyone dies because the kingdom catches fire. End of story.”

“You’re so mean!”

“I must say, that’s unimaginative, even for _you,_ Takafumi,” Kirishima teased, from where he was reclining between Yokozawa, sitting stiffly on one side, and Hiyori with her head on his shoulder on the other.

“It’s a virtue,” the younger man retorted, and his lover began to laugh, until it dissolved into another violent coughing fit. Yokozawa quickly reached out to the bedside table, grabbing a couple of tissues from the box on it and handing them to Kirishima, who accepted them gratefully.

 _“Watch out!”_ he snapped as the older man’s coughs subsided and he wadded the tissues up and threw them into the bedside dustbin. He was as white as a sheet, and when Kirishima grabbed his hands, they were trembling violently.

“I love you both so much,” he suddenly felt it slip out. He felt immensely _tired_ from that attack, like he’d inhaled steel nails. The pain and the sleepiness were making him woozy. “And even if I’m not here anymore… soon, I need you to promise me. Promise me you’ll live your lives for me. Promise me you’ll live like I’m there encouraging you every step of the way. But most of all,” here he squeezed Yokozawa’s hand tight, “Promise me you’ll move on.”

 

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, Hiyori buried her face into Kirishima’s chest.

“…I promise.”

Her father stroked her hair, and the Yokozawa, seeming to have found his voice, ripped his hand away from the older man.

“What- stop talking such _rubbish._ You’re going to be here for a while yet, yeah?” he said, looking anywhere but at his lover, who simply dimmed the lights.

“Good night, everyone.”

“Good night, Papa, oniichan.”

“…Good night.”

_Does he understand at all?_

A few uneasy moments later, Kirishima felt Yokozawa’s head coming to rest softly on his shoulder, and his body instantly relaxed. He stroked the younger man’s hair, and when Yokozawa, of his own accord, came up to claim his lips in a bruising, lingering, _haunting_ kiss, the brown-eyed man knew his message had gone through.

 

_Maybe they didn’t suck so much at this whole ‘non-verbal communication’ thing._

 

_It was just a pity they were realizing it just now._

_It was just a pity they were only_ trying _just now._

He tasted salt between their lips, and he knew they were both silently crying.

 

“Zen,” Yokozawa was whispering, soft, and so _fragile_ it threatened to break any moment. “I love you.”

 

Their fingers interlocked.

 

 _“Takafumi,”_ Kirishima breathed out. “I love you too.”

 

The last thing Kirishima saw was their wedding bands glinting off each other in the moonlight. The last thing he felt was Yokozawa’s skin against his, his lover’s warm tears on his tongue, and his fingers carding through Hiyori’s hair.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (((((I cried while writing this)))))
> 
> SO CHEER ME UP AT miteranyx.tumblr.com


	14. Disenchantment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter. With this, guys, Trifecta is officially over. There will be an epilogue, but I must say, this monster of a story turned out exactly like I wanted. I've gone over the entire thing and made some very necessary edits, so, if you want to, now, you can read this in a huge chunk.

When Takano had woken up naked in Yokozawa’s bed, and registered his surroundings, his first thought had been _I am_ so _shitfucked._

 _Literally._ When he had gingerly tried taking a step out of the bed, as opposed to burying his face in the pillow and attempting to strangle himself with it, his hips had screamed so violently in protest that he’d sunk back down again with the shock of it. Whoever would have guessed that Yokozawa would still have it in him to fuck him into immobility, after having been a bottom bitch for so long?

A flash of ill-timed humor had had the editor letting out an amused snort as he’d pictured his friend’s _face_ if he ever alluded to the ink-haired man as a _bottom bitch_ in his hearing.

His accompanying smirk, though, had speedily faded as the ramifications of their actions the previous night had re-established themselves at the forefront of his mind. _Stupid_ didn’t even begin to cover it.

It wasn’t that _he_ himself had especially regretted what they’d done, per se, but he had known Yokozawa would. And that had been putting it mildly. If he knew anything of the man, the salesman would likely hole himself up to wallow in his guilt and let overwork and non-maintenance drive him insane.

 _Great,_ he’d buried his head in the pillow, _I fucked up another relationship._

Eventually, though, he’d managed to clam his racing thoughts, raising his head again to take a good look at the man beside him, something he hadn’t had the opportunity to do the day before, and a frown had darkened his face.

Yokozawa had looked like _hell,_ his face unguarded and his eyes swollen and dark-shadowed. Almost instinctively, the other man had sent the back of his hand lightly brushing across that fragile-looking cheek.

But somehow, Takano hadn’t been able to look for very long at his friend’s face with its customary guard in shambles around the mess they’d made, so, steeling himself, he had climbed of that bed and ignored the protests of his muscles.

_Because if there was one thing he knew about Yokozawa, it was that he’d pull through, no matter what._

He had hoped that’d come through in the note he’d left before quietly making an undetected exit, telling the sleeping man to _pull through,_ to _talk to Kirishima-san._ It would have been transcending the bounds of even his usual insensitivity towards his oldest friend if he had subjected them both to the awkward, painful, morning-after conversation. Yokozawa didn’t need his pity, his sympathy, or his apologies.

After what had happened between them, Takano doubted Yokozawa even needed _him._

 

* * *

 

The silence of the corridor in front of Takano’s apartment was no different from usual, but, to him, it felt cavernous when he returned there, just as the sun was beginning to trail strains of watery-gold and orange over the rich blue velvet of night. Without the surety of Onodera’s presence in the neighboring apartment, Takano felt suddenly, achingly _lonely_ as he trudged back to his.

 

_But the younger man hadn’t said it, had he? Not even once._

_Not even when he’d been about to leave Takano forever._

_Just three little simple words._

Unthinkingly, some instinct of Takano’s directed his steps towards the wrong apartment. Maybe it was the faint, faint scent that still lingered there, or maybe it was the headier brew of _memories._

Either way, the ebony-haired man walked towards the door in a daze, placing a hand almost _tenderly_ on the cool plane of it when he was close enough, then flinching back in surprise as it creaked. The landlord evidently hadn’t been around to lock it up yet.

As though in slow motion, the door swung open, leaving the inside half-cloaked in shadow and ghosts of their past. Takano took mindless steps forward, the half-light seeming to beckon to him. He was almost at the threshold before he froze up.

He could go on.

He could go on and enter this cove rife with reminisces and run his hands over every contour, every little nook and cranny of the life he’d been part of for a few glorious moments and inhale that piquant _scent._ And then, not finding any depth to the superficiality of imagery and memory, he could head back, his wounds gouged deeper and smarting afresh and the scent still clinging to him.

 

Because there was nothing _there_ for him _,_ any more, the sparking fire that had electrified all these little things, all these insignificant places, was gone, firmly extinguished. And the amber-eyed man suddenly knew what disenchantment meant.

 

Takano turned around, on the precipice between light and shadow, and walked towards illumination.

 

 _If you really love someone, you’ll find a way to make it work,_ it was something he’d read, something that’d stuck with him because it rang true.

And, well, that gave him a _pretty_ good insight into Onodera’s feelings.

 

He redirected his steps towards his own house, sighing as he brushed off the haunting fragrance that seemed to have twined itself into the very seams of his clothing. He unlocked his door and powered on his coffee machine, putting on his glasses and getting out the stack of proofs he’d neglected to overlook the previous day. He was done.

He was _done_ with feeling this way, tired of wearing his heart on his sleeve and having it spurned. He was done with constantly being strung out and tossed about on the whim of someone. On the whim of someone who’d just up and left without a second glance, hadn’t even _thought_ to try for them.

He was _done,_ and if he wasn’t, he’d bury it under a mountain of office work until he _was._

 

 

* * *

 

_Loneliness._

Takano was no stranger to the concept, the feeling, as children growing up in a token family seldom are, and he thought he’d had it down pat how to deal with it.

What he was _just_ realizing was, that despite his firm convictions to the contrary, it was possible for people to heal. He’d done it, more that he’d ever realized, in the intervening years from college till now. Steady friendship and work had, without him realizing it, gone a huge way in filling the void his former hobbies had only seemed to exacerbate. And so, he felt it with all the roughness of inexperience, the _lonely_ that seemed to have crept into the hollow that two of the biggest components of his life had left.

Takano hadn’t ever really thought about not having the easy camaraderie, the wordless understanding, the familiar voice a phone call away in the form of Yokozawa, because he’d never imagined a scenario where he _wouldn’t_ have these things. Now that the grey-eyed man was avoiding him like the plague, though, Takano was just beginning to uncover how much social contact with a few kindred spirits, which was something he’d spurned all through his teenage years, had come to mean to him with maturity.

Which was why he was sitting across from Hatori Yoshiyuki in a booth of a classy, low-key bar, having dragged the man out from where he was always holed up with Yoshino-Yoshikawa-sensei-sama.

“I need your advice on something,” Takano had bluntly stated his purpose as soon as they’d taken their seats, and, Hatori, bless his unruffled soul, had simply nodded, expression remaining unchanged. These were the times when Takano was reminded exactly _why_ this was his right-hand man. If some fucking shota like Kisa had said something like “Ooh, Takano-san, could it be about your _love life~~?”,_ the editor-in-chief would probably have socked them in the face.

As it was, Takano wasn’t a fan of regaling others with juicy details of his personal life, but, at this point, he’d deemed himself more liable to cause harm than good in the present situation and his second-in-command at _Emerald_ had seemed like the perfect uninvolved third party to help him not fuck it up any more.

Now that they were here, though, Takano faced with Hatori’s even gaze across the table, he wasn’t quite sure how to start.

“What if…” he finally began, years of interpersonal experience leading him to choose his words carefully, “You hurt someone very close to you in a moment of weakness?”

“…………!”

This was the first time Takano had seen the other man look so taken aback. The shock that passed over his features was unmistakable before it was quickly smothered with a forced return to calmness. “What kind of hurt are we talking about, here?”

“The kind where you ruin a really precious relationship for them.”

There it was again. That fleeting look, which practically screamed _oh shit._ It had the ebony-haired man regarding the other suspiciously. His subordinates’ personal lives were of little interest or consequence to him, but it was nonetheless amusing to see the famously aloof Hatori get worked up over something.

“Well, I’d say to just not to mess with it any more. Just… back off, at least until things settle down. Or, if you’ve _really_ done something bad, completely stop interfering in their lives,” the violet-eyed man said, usual distant expression firmly back on his face, even as the worlds came out in a tighter voice than usual. This pretty much resonated with everything Takano had been telling himself thus far, and _yet_ it felt like trying to jam two jigsaw pieces together that just wouldn’t fit.

“But…” he persisted, finally voicing the conflict that had been eating away at him. “I can’t do that. I… they’re not doing well at all right now. I know they’ll never let their job suffer for it, but I also know they’ll work themselves into an absolute corner with everything on their plate. And, well, they had always been there for me to tell me when I was being full of shit, and I feel like a _gigantic_ dick that I can’t do the same for them. And _fuck_ if I’m sitting on my ass and letting them suffer.”

The dim, understated lighting, played out over Hatori’s face, and suddenly he looked much older.

“Well, Takano-san,” he said, tone soft and altogether different from how his boss had ever heard him sound. “It looks to me like you’ve fallen for them.”

 

For once in his life, Takano’s stock of ready wit was summarily silenced.

 

“In which case,” the man continues, his violet gaze steady and bespeaking almost of _experience._ “You should just come clean at once. Tell them you love them, because, trust me, you’ll only keep on and on hurting them like this if you bottle up your feelings. And then respect their decision if they can’t have you in their lives any more.”

 

“Not a chance,” the editor-in-chief said flatly, after a momentary, shocked pause. “No way in hell am I in _love_ with this person.”

 

“But you can’t be a friend to them, can you?” his second-in-command pushed inexorably. “What a _friend_ needs from you right now is non-interference. Even so, you can’t bring yourself to not be by their side, can you?”

 

“All the same, it’s still ridiculous,” the amber-eyed man said, making a dismissive gesture. “This person… confessed to me twice. And I rejected them both times.”

 

“Pardon me if I’m being presumptuous, but wouldn’t it be correct to say that until recently, certain… factors had prevented any feelings you might have otherwise harbored from manifesting?” Hatori, _screw him,_ said slyly. “Besides, third time’s the charm, isn’t it?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 _“Shit,”_ Takano massaged his temples as he flopped down onto his bed. After he’d bid Hatori farewell, he’d returned straight to Ichinose-sensei’s latest draft, scoring vicious red marks into it until an ungodly hour, and their conversation was _still_ keeping him up.

 

_Third time’s the charm, after all._

_Was there any truth to that?_

Takano lazily followed the slow passage of a ashen cloud over the clear silver of the moon. Did he really think that something had changed between the two of them? Could one stormy, mistake-ridden evening really have changed the course of ten years of convoluted, unrequited feelings?

 

_Fuck no._

There was a _reason_ that shojo was only a genre of manga.

 

The cloud drifted past the moon, and Takano languorously raised a hand, resting it, palm up, against his upturned cheek, as if to catch the moonlight that suddenly bathed his face, letting his musings flow.

 

His amber gaze suddenly snapped open as his train of thought, catching on a sudden realization, was brought to a screeching halt.

This wasn’t… this conversation with Hatori couldn’t be the first time he’d thought, _really_ thought, of Onodera in the monthsince the older man’s pilgrimage of sorts to his former lover’s place?

 

 _He. Was_ so. _Shitfucked._

* * *

 

 

Takano didn’t understand.

Takano didn’t understand why he was sitting in his car as pristine white flakes fell gently from the sky and silently cast a mantle of pallor over the little picket-edged forest clearing he was watching from a distance, with its small black-clothed gathering.

He didn’t understand why he’d actually eavesdropped on the gossip of his department, had listened in to the hushed whisper of “Sakamoto says that he heard that Kirishima-san’s private funeral is going to be in the middle of nowhere, right on the outskirts of Hyogo.”

He didn’t understand why he’d crushed up his copy of Onodera’s resignation, dropping it into the trash before summarily ordering his subordinates back to work.

But he did, finally, _finally,_ understand why his heart throbbed with an indescribable ache when he saw Yokozawa emerge from the cemetery after the service, face drawn and eyes suspiciously red-rimmed and swollen, holding onto the hand of a crying child as if his life depended on it. It was the same ache he’d felt when he’d watched Kirishima-san walk out of the building that he’d been a fixture in for as long as long as Takano could remember, head held high and eyes looking like he’d imminent demise had already befallen.

He _hurt_ with this man, and a small, mirthless curled his lips with the realization that it was, now, his turn to wait for Yokozawa. Because, with the two of them, it had never been a chase. It had always been waiting, waiting for the other to come around.

And he would wait. He would lay a wordless hand on Yokozawa’s shoulder at the company memorial and give him his silent, unwavering understanding and get to know his little girl until the grey-eyed man was ready, ready to try his first love again. However long it took.

_Things did, indeed, come full circle._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you guys, and I love this ending.  
> Oh, and. I need you guys to throw prompts at me, to help me with what I want to write next! I'll write for any yaoi fandom and Free!, so go wild! My tumblr is miteranyx.tumblr.com.


	15. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. Guys, this is it. Fin. The end. I don't even know how I feel. Trifecta has been my baby for the past month and a half. Ugh I can't believe it's over. I'm going to grab this opportunity to say a big, biiiiiiig, FUCKING HUGE thank you to EVERY SINGLE ONE of my readers, and in particular, to those who left kudos and comments. You seriously have no idea how much they helped me. They pulled me out of a slump, helped me with the plot. Basically, the only reason this story is even complete is because of you guys. (Though I think most of you now hate me and have abandoned me after the turn this story took xc)  
> Anyway, on this last chapter, I'd like to talk a little bit about the title of the fic. I've, more than once, had people on various forums telling me they expected a Yokozawa/Kirishima fic because of the title. Now, this is what I picked up from a dictionary for 'Trifecta'.
> 
> a bet in which the person betting forecasts the first three finishers in a race in the correct order.  
> • [ in sing. ] a run of three wins or grand events: he will attempt a trifecta of the long jump, triple jump, and 110-meter high hurdles.  
> ORIGIN 1970s: from tri- ‘three’ + perfecta .
> 
> I just chose the title because I felt like this was somehow symbolic of the events of the story, if simply for irony's sake. 
> 
> Aaaaanywayy, this is Zeb signing off, and don't forget to hit up my tumblr (miteranyx.tumblr.com) with your prompts! Thank you so much, guys!

The day had dawned astoundingly clear, as if the Universe itself was aiding and abetting the advent of the one time Yokozawa had been both unconsciously anticipating and had hoped would never come. So strong had been his trepidation that he had seriously considered just going back to Japan the previous day.

But here they were, standing at the door of the grandiose church— Gothic, he remembered, from the little brochure his scoping out had yielded him, feeling like he was about to projectile vomit.

“Oniichan, _relax,”_ Hiyori, standing at his side, patted his arm.

“You’re one to talk,” he retorted gruffly, turning to his daughter, who looked pretty green herself. “Besides, it’s not every day that I’m about to hand my kid over to another man.”

 _“Oniichan!”_ Hiyo began indignantly. “I’m _not—,”_

“Yeah, yeah, I know, you’re not being handed over, you’re still your own person,” Yokozawa sighed. “Still, look at you. About to get _married._ You can’t blame your oniichan for getting a little misty-eyed.”

And the girl did look a vision. Her long, caramel hair, so like her father’s, cascaded down over her shoulders, misted over by a white veil. Along with the long, regal-looking white dress that lent a perfect complement to her tan skin and her hair only slightly darker, she looked honest-to-god like an _angel_ to the older man.

The sounding of an organ from inside the church interrupted his reverie, and all of his conflicting emotion boiled up his throat and down to his fingertips in a sick rush, making his palms sweat.

“That’s our cue,” he muttered anyway. From the way the grip on his arm tightened, he had a feeling he wasn’t the only one dangerously close to passing out.

As soon as they took the first step, though, Yokozawa stopped dead.

The guilt he’d learned to smother, maybe even partially _forget_ in the intervening years, suddenly hit him like an anvil, crippling his legs.

No matter what he himself, or anyone else tried to say to convince him otherwise, the fact remained that he’d never be _right._ Not for this, not for anything concerning Hiyori’s future. It was supposed to be _Kirishima_ there, leading his daughter down the aisle, entrusting someone else with the most prized entity in his life; or at least someone who had a better claim to this girl than being her father’s ex-lover.

Years of experience, coupled with her natural sensitivity, alerted the younger girl, almost immediately, to his line of thought.

“It’s okay…” she said, voice sounding like it’d break if she spoke too loud. “I miss him as much as you do. I wish, more than anything else, that he was here with me today.”

The taller man knew the expression on her face, even in profile. It was the same one she’d worn at her father’s funeral, the same one that’d haunted his dreams for _months_ after that day.

“But,” she gulped, as if swallowing back a sob, still looking straight ahead. “You’re here, and there isn’t a person I want more in this world.”

The words stabbed at Yokozawa’s chest, but it wasn’t a bad kind of pain.

“Don’t- don’t cry,” he said awkwardly, thumbing away a stray tear from her cheek. “You’ll ruin your makeup.”

She almost laughed, then, finally turning to look at him as she took a rose from the corsage in her hand and pinned to his tuxedo lapel.

 

And then they were walking.

 

The organ music sounded blaringly loud in his ears as he led Hiyori to the altar. Even as they walked forward, though, face, surroundings blurring in their path, he felt like he was being shunted back in time; back, back to long-forgotten words and lingering moments.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_“Then just what kind of man would you accept for her? I bet you’ll be hiding in a corner sobbing when she gets married.”_

_“Like hell; I’ll be bawling my eyes out at the ceremony. And you can laugh all you like—but what about you? You look like you’d be worse off than me.”_

_“Well sure, I might get choked up, but I’m not the type to cry in public.”_

* * *

_Was_ he crying now, though? Yokozawa didn’t know. He had no _idea,_ as he took his daughter’s hand and put it into her groom’s, whether he was getting _choked up._ Even as he heard out the recital of those vows he’d himself made, a lifetime ago.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 _“Papa,”_ Hiyori had breathed, that fateful day in the family plot. “I’m getting married.”

She’d spilled her heart out to the smooth silence of cool stone and the still patience of verdant forest, just as she had used to, so many years ago, sitting by that very man’s side.

And they had listened raptly as he’d used to, when she told him _I know you’d love him_ and _it’s going to be in France, in a month_ and _he’s French but he’s so much like you, I sometimes think you’re here._

Yokozawa had almost smiled at that last one; thinking of exactly what Kirishima would have had to say to _that._

But it was only when Hiyori had tactfully wandered off towards the budding cherry blossom forest with a last, whispered, _please watch over us,_ that the ink-haired man had spoken his few words to his erstwhile lover.

“I’d promised I’d take her to Europe,” he had murmured, running a hand over where Kirishima’s name, weathered some by the years, was carved into the rock. “And here we are.”

He’d just stood there for a while, eyes closed, listening to the breeze whipping past his face, reveling in the crisp freshness of it, the gentle caress of it that somehow always smelled like the cherry-blossom scent of a thousand ancient loves crystallized into a flower. And then he’d taken, from his pocket, a single white chrysanthemum, carefully stained a light turquoise blue, and left it at the stone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _They must be in full bloom back home,_ Yokozawa dimly reflected, watching, as if through a soundless haze, the couple exchanging rings, as his daughter and this man were connected by a sacred union, as happy tears dried and the happy couple was hugged, as champagne was opened and glasses were raised, _the sakura must be blooming._

It was a poignant occasion, doubtless, more so for him than most, and _god_ he felt it as he hugged Hiyo, tight, again and again, an ache in his chest which he couldn’t entirely place.

But as they all journeyed back to the in-laws’, as dusk fell and lights came on and a buffet was set up and musicians appeared out of nowhere, as he attempted to converse in bad French, Yokozawa was also acutely conscious of a deep, intrinsic _happiness._

 

It even made him feel up to cradling a flute of champagne, smiling and clapping along when the newlyweds took to the floor for the first dance. Watching them, he nevertheless felt a lump in his throat as he admired Hiyori’s slender, graceful figure, thinking of how _much_ she’d changed from the little girl he’d known and grown to love.

The nostalgia carried him forward after the song finished, to where the twilight outlined the figures of the bride and groom like a dream.

“Pourrais-je avoir l’honneur de cette danse?” he teasingly said as he placed a gentle hand on his daughter’s shoulder, internally nodding in approval as her now-husband promptly backed away. Respect was always high on Yokozawa’s checklist.

“I didn’t know you spoke French!” Hiyori laughed as he took her hand.

“Just goes to show, doesn’t it?” he replied, felling just a _little_ smug. He hadn’t wanted to marry his girl off without knowing a word off the other side’s language, and neither had he wanted to show himself up at dancing, so he’d been brushing up on both on the sly for the past several months.

The younger girl seemed not to hear, biting her lip and glancing off to the side. A strange, perturbed look had come into her eye whenever she’d sighted the older man for the past week or so, but he had simply written it off as premarital stress. Now, though, there was no reason for the troubled face she was making, and it worried him.

“What is it?” he pressed gently. Today was supposed to be a special day for her, after all, and it was only his duty to do his utmost to ensure that it stayed such.

“It’s just something I’ve been wondering for a while now… I suppose having the wedding so close at hand brought it to the forefront of my mind,” the brown-eyed girl said hesitantly. “And I realize it’s kind of indelicate to ask, but… you and my father were… special to each other, weren’t you?”

When Yokozawa didn’t reply, she rushed to make amends.

“I- I mean, I’m sorry for presuming!” her eyes glimmered with contrition. “But I thought a lot about why you continued to stay in touch after father passed, and just from the way you look when you talk about him, I just thought—”

“Woah, woah,” the dark-haired man stopped her before she could give herself an aneurysm. Honestly, he was surprised she hadn’t asked sooner. “It’s okay. I figure you should know now, anyway.”

With fingers that ran hot and cold at the same time, he broke the dance to reach under his called and fish out a chain with a platinum band on it, the same chain he hadn’t taken off for ten years. He showed it to the white-clad girl, who traced her fingers over it like it was precious.

“I,” he took a deep breath, looking her straight in the eye. “Once married a man called Kirishima Zen, whom I loved very, very much.”

“So all along, you were—you were—,” Hiyo floundered for words, rendered speechless by the sudden revelation, looking dazed. Yokozawa simply nodded. He had often toyed with the idea of telling Hiyo himself, but had always shut it down, not wanting to rock her boat or upset her needlessly.

“You could have told me I’d never been fatherless, onii—um…”

The older man opened his mouth to tell her that she could continue calling him _oniichan,_ same as always, but jumped about a foot in the air as arms snaked about his waist.

“Hiyori-chan, congratulations. I must say, you look absolutely _gorgeous_ tonight,” the all-too-familiar voice sounded next to his ear, the voice that had been the niggling worry at the back of his mind all day.

“Congratulations. Although it looks to me like your husband’s the one who got lucky here.” Masamune was in his tuxedo, hair styled and charm racked up to eleven. “Here’s a little something for the beautiful bride.”

He handed her a delicate little silvered box, and Hiyori blushed in pleasure. All the years of knowing the amber-eyed man had not made her immune to his charisma. “Takano-oniisan, thank you so much for coming!”

“The pleasure is all mine, but I’m afraid I’ll have to borrow Yokozawa for a little while.”

“Of course! Just a moment, if you don’t mind?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“So, Takano-san?” Yokozawa ribbed him when Hiyo had left. “Here to ask me to dance?”

“Like hell,” Masamune shot back, the familiar moody expression overtaking his face now that he didn’t have anyone around to impress. “I don’t need to deal with an embarrassment like you on the dance floor on top of these pompous French assholes talking my ear off.”

“So you mean to say that your dancing skills have improved since the time you stepped on Manami-chan’s toes at our senior farewell party?”

“…Bastard.”

 

The grey-eyed man hadn’t noticed it, but in the course of their conversation, his companion had led him away from the party, onto a grassy little hillock a ways from it, overhung by the full moon.

“Jesus, the things I do for the pair of you,” the ebony-haired man fell gracefully to the ground, taking a swallow from the champagne flute he was still holding. “The only good thing about this party is the booze.”

“That and the small detail of _our kid_ getting hitched,” Yokozawa said caustically, sitting down next to him.

“Yeah, that too,” Masamune said, with a quick, fond smile, but his eyes were still guarded.

Yokozawa took a good look at him. Although he still wouldn’t call himself _imaginative_ , not by a long shot, the years spent with the man beside him had lent him _some_ appreciation for beauty. The editor had always been an open book for him, but now he could relate the emotion in those luminescent eyes as a complement to the way the sharp angle of his jawline sent the rest his face into a moonlit play of shadows and alabaster, to _beauty.”_

“…Worry about yourself first,” he said eventually.

“Huh?”

“I _said,_ I’m fine. It’s yourself you should be worried about. I get that you’re in one hell of an awkward situation here.” No matter how you looked at it, attending your lover’s dead husband’s daughter’s funeral was _not_ a comfortable predicament.

“…………………….” Masamune said nothing, just staring out into the blue velvet distance, an unreadable expression on his face.

“You know, when Hiyo wanted to talk to me alone?”

The salesman had often been grateful that he so often instinctively _knew_ what to say to his lover to circumvent his self-defeating, cynical way of thinking, and he was grateful now for the flicker of interest in the amber eyes.

“Hmmmmm?” the brown-haired man inclined his head towards the other.

“She asked me if Takano-oniisan was special to me now.”

“And what did you say?” those beautiful eyes lit up with a flash of mirth as a tiny, genuine smile played on Masamune’s lips, some of the buoyance coming back into his voice.

“What do you think?” Yokozawa reached for his lover’s hand, the years and the disillusionment with societal standards of _decorum,_ coupled with the comfort of being in a foreign land where two men were free to do as they please making him braver than he’d ever imagined himself capable of being. “She was happy for us. Wished us luck.”

Masamune took the proffered hand, and the grey-eyed man felt the words slip out.

“He was happy too.”

All his life, he had scorned such superstition, but just today, just this once, he let himself say it. Because just the fact that he was sitting here, at Kirishima’s daughter’s wedding with his first love and their long, convoluted past laid out before them was testament to the fact that anything was possible. “Today was the heaviest sakura fall we’ve had this year.”

“Tsk,” his partner just drew his face closer. “Of course he was happy.”

“You know,” the salesman murmured, faces now so close that he did it against the ebony-haired man’s lips. “I think it’s time I took you to meet him. I did promise him, after all.”

Slowly, softly, with nothing but silver moonlight attending their whispered conversation, their lips met for an ephemeral, eternal moment, and when they finally broke away, like so many things, neither of them needed to say it. Yokozawa saw it in Masamune’s eyes, and he knew Masamune saw it in his.

_I love you._


End file.
